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THE   LIFE   OF  THE   SPIDER 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE 
SPIDER 

BY 
J.    HENRI    FABRE 


translated  by 
Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

FELLOW   OF  THE   ZOOLOGICAL   SOCIETY   OF   LONDON 

With  a  Preface  by  Maurice  Maeterlinck 


BLUE  RIBBON  BOOKS,  INC. 

NEW  YORK  CITY 


Copyright,  191 2 

Bt  dodd,  mead  and  company 


PRINTED    AND    BOUND    BY    THE    CORNWALL    PRESS,    INC.,    FOR 
BLUE  RIBBON  BOOKS,  INC.,  386  FOURTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK  CITY 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


-MA  02167 


CONTENTS 


PAGTt 


preface:  the  insects  homer,   by 

maurice  maeterlinck       .      .  7 

translator's  note 36 

CHAPTER 

I     THE  BLACK-BELLIED  TARANTULA  39 

11     THE  BANDED  EPEIRA         ...  78 

III  THE   NARBONNE   LYCOSA          .        .  IO5 

IV  THE     NARBONNE     LYCOSA:      THE 

BURROW 125 

V     THE     NARBONNE     LYCOSA:      THE 

FAMILY 153 

VI     THE     NARBONNE     LYCOSA:      THE 

CLIMBING-INSTINCT       .        .        .  171 

VII     THE   spider's    EXODUS       .        .        .  1 87 

VIII     THE  CRAB   SPIDER        .        .        .        .  213 


Contents 


IX     THE  GARDEN  SPIDERS:  BUILDING 

THE    WEB 228 

X     THE  GARDEN  SPIDERS :  MY  NEIGH- 
BOUR       248 

XI     THE  GARDEN  SPIDERS  :  THE  LIME- 
SNARE    272 

XII     THE  GARDEN  SPIDERS  :  THE  TELE- 
GRAPH-WIRE        282 

XIII  THE    GARDEN    SPIDERS:    PAIRING 

AND   HUNTING  ....       296 

XIV  THE  GARDEN  SPIDERS  :  THE  QUES- 

TION OF  PROPERTY  .         .        .        317 

XV     THE  LABYRINTH  SPIDER   .        .        .       330 

XVI     THE  CLOTHO  SPIDER   .        .        .        .       360 

APPENDIX:    THE     GEOMETRY    OF    THE 

EPEIRA's  WEB    .        .        .        .        .383 


PREFACE 

THE    insect's    homer 


/^  RANGE  and  Serignan,  the  latter  a  llt- 
^-^  tie  Provencal  village  that  should  be  as 
widely  celebrated  as  Maillane,^  have  of 
late  years  rendered  honour  to  a  man  whose 
brow  deserves  to  be  girt  with  a  double  and  ra- 
diant crown.  But  fame — at  least  that  which 
is  not  the  true  nor  the  great  fame,  but  her  il- 
legitimate sister,  and  which  creates  more  noise 
than  durable  work  in  the  morning  and  even- 
ing papers — fame  is  often  forgetful,  negli- 
gent, behindhand  or  unjust;  and  the  crowd  is 
almost  ignorant  of  the  name  of  J.  H.  Fabre, 
who  is  one  of  the  most  profound  and  inven- 
tive scholars  and  also  one  of  the  purest 
writers  and,  I  was  going  to  add,  one  of  the 
finest  poets  of  the  century  that  is  just  past. 

'Maillane  is  the  birthplace  of  Mistral,  the  Provengal 
ooet. — 7  ranslator's  Note. 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

J.  H.  Fabre,  as  some  few  people  know,  is 
the  author  of  half  a  score  of  well-filled  vol- 
umes in  which,  under  the  title  of  Souvenirs 
Entomologiques,  he  has  set  down  the  results 
of  fifty  years  of  observation,  study  and  exper- 
iment on  the  insects  that  seem  to  us  the  best- 
known  and  the  most  familiar:  different  species 
of  wasps  and  wild  bees,  a  few  gnats,  flies, 
beetles  and  caterpillars;  in  a  word,  all  those 
vague,  unconscious,  rudimentary  and  almost 
nameless  little  lives  which  surround  us  on 
every  side  and  which  we  contemplate  with 
eyes  that  are  amused,  but  already  thinking  of 
other  things,  when  we  open  our  window  to 
welcome  the  first  hours  of  spring,  or  when 
we  go  into  the  gardens  or  the  fields  to  bask 
in  the  blue  summer  days. 


We  take  up  at  random  one  of  these  bulky 
volumes  and  naturally  expect  to  find  first  of 
all  the  very  learned  and  rather  dry  lists  of 
names,  the  very  fastidious  and  exceedingly 
quaint  specifications  of  those  huge,  dusty 
graveyards  of  which  all  the  entomological 
treatises  that  we  have  read  so  far  seem  almost 
8 


Preface 

wholly  to  consist.  We  therefore  open  the 
book  without  zest  and  without  unreasonable 
expectations;  and  forthwith,  from  between 
the  open  leaves,  there  rises  and  unfolds  itself, 
without  hesitation,  without  interruption  and 
almost  without  remission  to  the  end  of  the 
four  thousand  pages,  the  most  extraordinary 
of  tragic  fairy  plays  that  it  is  possible  for  the 
human  imagination,  not  to  create  or  to  con- 
ceive, but  to  admit  and  to  acclimatize  within 
itself. 

Indeed,  there  is  no  question  here  of  the 
human  imagination.  The  insect  does  not  be- 
long to  our  world.  The  other  animals,  the 
plants  even,  notwithstanding  their  dumb  life 
and  the  great  secrets  which  they  cherish,  do 
not  seem  wholly  foreign  to  us.  In  spite  of 
all,  we  feel  a  certain  earthly  brotherhood  in 
them.  They  often  surprise  and  amaze  our 
intelligence,  but  do  not  utterly  upset  it. 
There  is  something,  on  the  other  hand,  about 
the  insect  that  does  not  seem  to  belong  to  the 
habits,  the  ethics,  the  psychology  of  our 
globe.  One  would  be  inclined  to  say  that  the 
insect  comes  from  another  planet,  more  mon- 
strous, more  energetic,  more  insane,  more 
atrocious,  more  infernal  than  our  own.  One 
would  think  that  it  was  born  of  some  comet 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

that  had  lost  its  course  and  died  demented  in 
space.  In  vain  does  it  seize  upon  life  with  an 
authority,  a  fecundity  unequalled  here  below; 
we  cannot  accustom  ourselves  to  the  idea  that 
it  is  a  thought  of  that  nature  of  whom  we 
fondly  believe  ourselves  to  be  the  privileged 
children  and  probably  the  ideal  to  which  all 
the  earth's  efforts  tend.  Only  the  infinitely 
small  disconcerts  us  still  more  greatly;  but 
what,  in  reality,  is  the  infinitely  small  other 
than  an  insect  which  our  eyes  do  not  see? 
There  is,  no  doubt,  in  this  astonishment  and 
lack  of  understanding  a  certain  instinctive 
and  profound  uneasiness  inspired  by  those 
existences  incomparably  better-armed,  better- 
equipped  than  our  own,  by  those  creatures 
made  up  of  a  sort  of  compressed  energy  and 
activity  in  whom  we  suspect  our  most  myste- 
rious adversaries,  our  ultimate  rivals  and, 
perhaps,  our  successors. 


But  it  is  time,  under  the  conduct  of  an  ad- 
mirable guide,  to  penetrate  behind  the  scenes 
of  our  fairy  play  and  to  study  at  close  quarters 
the  actors  and  supernumeraries,  loathsome  or 


Preface 

magnificent,  as  the  case  may  be,  grotesque  or 
sinister,  heroic  or  appalling,  genial  or  stupid 
and  almost  always  improbable  and  unintel- 
ligible. 

And  here,  to  begin  with,  taking  the  first 
that  comes,  is  one  of  those  individuals,  fre- 
quent in  the  South,  where  we  can  see  it  prowl- 
ing around  the  abundant  manna  which  the 
mule  scatters  heedlessly  along  the  white  roads 
and  the  stony  paths:  I  mean  the  Sacred 
Scarab  of  the  Egyptians,  or,  more  simply, 
the  Dung-beetle,  the  brother  of  our  northern 
Geotrupes,  a  big  Coleopteron  all  clad  in 
black,  whose  mission  in  this  world  is  to  shape 
the  more  savoury  parts  of  the  prize  into  an 
enormous  ball  which  he  must  next  roll  to  the 
subterranean  dining-room  where  the  incred- 
ible digestive  adventure  is  to  take  its  course. 
But  destiny,  jealous  of  all  undiluted  bliss,  be- 
fore admitting  him  to  that  spot  of  sheer 
delight,  imposes  upon  the  grave  and  probably 
sententious  beetle  tribulations  without  num- 
ber, which  are  nearly  always  complicated  by 
the  arrival  of  an  untoward  parasite. 

Hardly  has  he  begun,  by  dint  of  great  ef- 
forts of  his  frontal  shield  and  bandy  legs,  to 
roll  the  toothsome  sphere  backwards,  when  an 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

indelicate  colleague,  who  has  been  awaiting 
the  completion  of  the  work,  appears  and  hypo- 
critically offers  his  services.  The  other  well 
knows  that,  in  this  case,  help  and  services, 
besides  being  quite  unnecessary,  will  soon 
mean  partition  and  dispossession;  and  he  ac- 
cepts the  enforced  collaboration  without  en- 
thusiasm. But,  so  that  their  respective  rights 
may  be  clearly  marked,  the  legal  owner  in- 
variably retains  his  original  place,  that  is  to 
say,  he  pushes  the  ball  with  his  forehead, 
whereas  the  compulsory  guest,  on  the  other 
side,  pulls  it  towards  him.  And  thus  it  jogs 
along  between  the  two  gossips,  amid  inter- 
minable vicissitudes,  flurried  falls,  grotesque 
tumbles,  till  it  reaches  the  place  chosen  to 
receive  the  treasure  and  to  become  the  ban- 
queting-hall.  On  arriving,  the  owner  sets 
about  digging  out  the  refectory,  while  the 
sponger  pretends  to  go  innocently  to  sleep  on 
the  top  of  the  bolus.  The  excavation  be- 
comes visibly  wider  and  deeper;  and  soon  the 
first  dung-beetle  dives  bodily  into  it.  This 
is  the  moment  for  which  the  cunning  aux- 
iliary was  waiting.  He  nimbly  scrambles 
down  from  the  blissful  eminence  and,  push- 
ing it  with  all  the  energy  that  a  bad  con- 


Preface 

science  gives,  strives  to  gain  the  offing.  But 
the  other,  who  is  rather  distrustful,  inter- 
rupts his  laborious  excavations,  looks  over- 
board, sees  the  sacrilegious  rape  and  leaps  out 
of  the  hole.  Caught  in  the  act,  the  shame- 
less and  dishonest  partner  makes  untold  ef- 
forts to  play  upon  the  other's  credulity, 
turns  round  and  round  the  inestimable  orb 
and,  embracing  it  and  propping  himself 
against  it,  with  fraudulent  heroic  exertions 
pretends  to  be  frantically  supporting  it  on  a 
non-existent  slope.  The  two  expostulate  with 
each  other  in  silence,  gesticulate  wildly  with 
their  mandibles  and  tarsi  and  then,  with  one 
accord,  bring  back  the  ball  to  the  burrow. 

It  is  pronounced  sufficiently  spacious  and 
comfortable.  They  introduce  the  treasure, 
they  close  the  entrance  to  the  corridor;  and 
now,  in  the  propitious  darkness  and  the  warm 
damp,  where  the  magnificent  stercoral  globe 
alone  holds  sway,  the  two  reconciled  mess- 
mates sit  down  face  to  face.  Then,  far 
from  the  light  and  the  cares  of  day  and  in 
the  great  silence  of  the  hypogeous  shade, 
solemnly  commences  the  most  fabulous  ban- 
quet whereof  abdominal  imagination  ever 
evoked  the  absolute  beatitudes. 
13 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

For  two  whole  months,  they  remain  clois- 
tered; and,  with  their  paunches  proportion- 
ately hollowing  out  the  inexhaustible  sphere, 
definite  archetypes  and  sovereign  symbols  of 
the  pleasures  of  the  table  and  the  gaiety  of 
the  belly,  they  eat  without  stopping,  without 
Interrupting  themselves  for  a  second,  day  or 
night.  And,  while  they  gorge,  steadily,  with 
a  movement  perceptible  and  constant  as  that 
of  a  clock,  at  the  rate  of  three  millimetres  a 
minute,  an  endless,  unbroken  ribbon  unwinds 
and  stretches  Itself  behind  them,  fixing  the 
memory  and  recording  the  hours,  days  and 
weeks  of  the  prodigious  feast. 


After  the  Dung-beetle,  that  dolt  of  the 
company,  let  us  greet,  also  In  the  order  of  the 
Coleoptera,  the  model  household  of  the  Min- 
otauriis  typhaiis,  which  is  pretty  well-known 
and  extremely  gentle.  In  spite  of  its  dreadful 
name.  The  female  digs  a  huge  burrow 
which  is  often  more  than  a  yard  and  a  half 
deep  and  which  consists  of  spiral  staircases, 
landings,  passages  and  numerous  chambers. 
14 


Preface 

The  male  loads  the  earth  on  the  three- 
pronged  fork  that  surmounts  his  head  and 
carries  it  to  the  entrance  of  the  conjugal 
dwelling.  Next,  he  goes  into  the  fields  in 
search  of  the  harmless  droppings  left  by  the 
sheep,  takes  them  down  to  the  first  storey  of 
the  crypt  and  reduces  them  to  flour  with  his 
trident,  while  the  mother,  right  at  the  bottom, 
collects  the  flour  and  kneads  it  into  huge  cylin- 
drical loaves,  which  will  presently  be  food  for 
the  little  ones.  For  three  months,  until  the 
provisions  are  deemed  sufficient,  the  unfortu- 
nate husband,  without  taking  nourishment  of 
any  kind,  exhausts  himself  in  this  gigantic 
work.  At  last,  his  task  accomplished,  feeling 
his  end  at  hand,  so  as  not  to  encumber  the 
house  with  his  wretched  remains,  he  spends 
his  last  strength  in  leaving  the  burrow,  drags 
himself  laboriously  along  and,  lonely  and  re- 
signed, knowing  that  he  is  henceforth  good  for 
nothing,  goes  and  dies  tar  away  among  the 
stones. 

Here,  on  another  side,  are  some  rather 
strange  caterpillars,  the  Proressionaries, 
which  are  not  rare;  and,  as  it  happens,  a 
single  string  of  them,  five  or  six  yards  long, 
has  just  climbed  down   from  my  umbrella- 

IS 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

pines  and  is  at  this  moment  unfolding  Itself 
in  the  walks  of  my  garden,  carpeting  the 
ground  traversed  with  transparent  silk,  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  the  race.  To  say 
nothing  of  the  meteorological  apparatus  of 
unparalleled  delicacy  which  they  carry  on  their 
backs,  these  caterpillars,  as  everybody  knows, 
have  this  remarkable  quality,  that  they  travel 
only  in  a  troop,  one  after  the  other,  like 
Breughel's  blind  men  or  those  of  the  parable, 
each  of  them  obstinately,  indissolubly  follow- 
ing its  leader;  so  much  so  that,  our  author 
having  one  morning  disposed  the  file  on  the 
edge  of  a  large  stone  vase,  thus  closing  the 
circuit,  for  seven  whole  days,  during  an  atro- 
cious week,  amidst  cold,  hunger  and  un- 
speakable weariness,  the  unhappy  troop  on  its 
tragic  round,  without  rest,  respite  or  mercy, 
pursued  the  pitiless  circle  until  death  overtook 
it. 


But  I  see  that  our  heroes  are  Infinitely  too 
numerous  and  that  we  must  not  linger  over 
our  descriptions.     We  may  at  most,  in  enu- 
merating the  more  Important  and  familiar^ 
i6 


Preface 

bestow  on  each  of  them  a  hurried  epithet,  in 
the  manner  of  old  Homer.  Shall  I  mention, 
for  instance,  the  Leucospis,  a  parasite  of  the 
Mason-bee,  who,  to  slay  his  brothers  and 
sisters  in  their  cradle,  arms  himself  with  a 
horn  helmet  and  a  barbed  breastplate,  which 
he  doffs  immediately  after  the  extermination, 
the  safeguard  of  a  hideous  right  of  primo- 
geniture? Shall  I  tell  of  the  marvellous 
anatomical  knowledge  of  the  Tachytes,  of 
the  Cerceris,  of  the  Ammophila,  of  the  Lan- 
guedocian  Sphex,  who,  according  as  they 
wish  to  paralyze  or  to  kill  their  prey  or  their 
adversary,  know  exactly,  without  ever  blunder- 
ing, which  nerve-centre  to  strike  with  their 
sting  or  their  mandibles?  Shall  I  speak  of 
the  art  of  the  Eumenes,  who  transforms  her 
stronghold  into  a  complete  museum  adorned 
with  shells  and  grains  of  translucent  quartz; 
of  the  magnificent  metamorphosis  of  the 
Pachytiliis  cinarescens ;  of  the  musical  in- 
strument owned  by  the  Cricket,  whose  bow 
numbers  one  hundred  and  fifty  triangular 
prisms  that  set  in  motion  simultaneously  the 
four  dulcimers  of  the  elytron?  Shall  I  sing 
the  fairy-like  birth  of  the  nymphs  of  the 
Anthophagus,  a  transparent  monster,  with  a 

17 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

bull's  snout,  that  seems  carved  out  of  a  block 
of  crystal  ?  Would  you  behold  the  Flesh-fly, 
the  common  Blue-bottle,  daughter  of  the  mag- 
got, as  she  Issues  from  the  earth?  Listen  to 
our  author : 

'She  disjoints  her  head  Into  two  movable 
halves,  which,  each  distended  with  Its  great 
red  eye,  by  turns  separate  and  reunite.  In 
the  Intervening  space  a  large  glassy  hernia 
rises  and  disappears,  disappears  and  rises. 
When  the  two  halves  move  asunder,  with  one 
eye  forced  back  to  the  right  and  the  other  to 
the  left,  it  is  as  though  the  insect  were  split- 
ting its  brain-pan  in  order  to  expel  the  con- 
tents. Then  the  hernia  rises,  blunt  at  the  end 
and  swollen  into  a  great  knob.  Next,  the 
forehead  closes  and  the  hernia  retreats,  leav- 
ing visible  only  a  kind  of  shapeless  muzzle. 
In  short,  a  frontal  pouch,  with  deep  pulsations 
momentarily  renewed,  becomes  the  instru- 
ment of  deliverance,  the  pestle  wherewith  the 
newly-hatched  Dlpteron  bruises  the  sand  and 
causes  it  to  crumble.  Gradually,  the  legs  push 
the  rubbish  back  and  the  insect  advances  so 
much  towards  the  surface.' 


i3 


Preface 
6 

And  monster  after  monster  passes,  such  as 
the  imagination  of  Bosch  or  Callot  never 
conceived!  The  larva  of  the  Rose-chafer, 
which,  though  it  have  legs  under  its  belly, 
always  travels  on  its  back;  the  Blue-winged 
Locust,  unluckier  still  than  the  Flesh-fly  and 
possessing  nothing  wherewith  to  perforate  the 
soil,  to  escape  from  the  tomb  and  reach  the 
light  but  a  cervical  bladder,  a  viscous  blister; 
and  the  Empusa,  who,  with  her  curved  ab- 
domen, her  great  projecting  eyes,  her  legs 
with  knee-pieces  armed  with  cleavers,  her  hal- 
berd, her  abnormally  tall  mitre  would  cer- 
tainly be  the  most  devilish  goblin  that  ever 
walked  the  earth,  if,  beside  her,  the  Praying 
Mantis  were  not  so  frightful  that  her  mere 
aspect  deprives  her  victims  of  their  power  of 
movement  when  she  assumes,  in  front  of 
them,  what  the  entomologists  have  termed 
'the  spectral  attitude.' 

One  cannot  mention,  even  casually,  the 
numberless  Industries — nearly  all  of  absorb- 
ing interest — exercised  among  the  rocks,  un- 
der the  ground,  in  the  walls,  on  the  branches, 
the  grass,  the  flowers,  the  fruits  and  down  to 

19 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  very  bodies  of  the  subjects  studied;  for 
we  sometimes  find  a  treble  superposition  of 
parasites,  as  in  the  Oil-beetles ;  and  we  see  the 
maggot  itself,  the  sinister  guest  at  the  last 
feast  of  all,  feed  some  thirty  brigands  with 
its  substance. 


Among  the  Hymenoptera,  which  represent 
the  most  intellectual  class  in  the  world  which 
we  are  studying,  the  building-talents  of  our 
wonderful  Domestic  Bee  are  certainly  equal, 
in  other  orders  of  architecture,  by  those  of 
more  than  one  wild  and  solitary  bee  and  not- 
ably by  the  Megachile,  or  Leaf-cutter,  a  lit- 
tle insect  which  is  not  all  outside  show  and 
which,  to  house  Its  eggs,  manufactures  honey- 
pots  formed  of  a  multitude  of  disks  and  el- 
lipses cut  with  mathematical  precision  from 
the  leaves  of  certain  trees.  For  lack  of  space, 
I  am  unable,  to  my  great  regret,  to  quote  the 
beautiful  and  pellucid  pages  which  J.  H. 
Fabre,  with  his  usual  conscientiousness,  de- 
votes to  the  exhaustive  study  of  this  admirable 
work;  nevertheless,  since  the  occasion  offers, 
let  us  listen  to  his  own  words,  though  it  be 

20 


Preface 

but  for  a  moment  and  in  regard  to  a  single 
detail : 

'With  the  oval  pieces,  the  question  changes. 
What  model  has  the  Megachile  when  cut- 
ting into  fine  ellipses  the  delicate  material  of 
the  robinia?  What  ideal  pattern  guides  her 
scissors?  What  measure  dictates  the  dimen- 
sions? One  would  like  to  think  of  the  insect 
as  a  living  compass,  capable  of  tracing  an 
elliptic  curve  by  a  certain  natural  inflexion 
of  the  body,  even  as  our  arm  traces  a  circle 
by  swinging  from  the  shoulder.  A  blind  mech- 
anism, the  mere  outcome  of  her  organiza- 
tion, would  in  that  case  be  responsible  for  her 
geometry.  This  explanation  would  tempt 
me,  if  the  oval  pieces  of  large  dimensions 
were  not  accompanied  by  much  smaller,  but 
likewise  oval  pieces,  to  fill  the  empty  spaces. 
A  compass  which  changes  its  radius  of  itself 
and  alters  the  degree  of  curvature  according 
to  the  exigencies  of  a  plan  appears  to  me  an 
Instrument  somewhat  difficult  to  believe  in. 
There  must  be  something  better  than  that. 
The  circular  pieces  of  the  lid  suggest  it  to  us. 

'If,  by  the  mere  flexion  inherent  in  her 
structure,  the  leaf-cutter  succeeds  In  cutting 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

out  ovals,  how  does  she  manage  to  cut  out 
rounds?  Can  we  admit  the  presence  of  other 
wheels  in  the  machinery  for  the  new  pattern, 
so  different  in  shape  and  size  ?  However,  the 
real  point  of  the  difficulty  does  not  lie  there. 
Those  rounds,  for  the  most  part,  fit  the 
mouth  of  the  bottle  with  almost  exact  preci- 
sion. When  the  cell  is  finished,  the  bee  flies 
hundreds  of  yards  further  to  make  the  lid. 
She  arrives  at  the  leaf  from  which  the  disk 
is  to  be  cut.  What  picture,  what  recollection 
has  she  of  the  pot  to  be  covered?  Why, 
none  at  all:  she  has  never  seen  it;  she  works 
underground,  in  profound  darkness !  At  the 
utmost,  she  can  have  the  indications  of  touch: 
not  actual  indications,  of  course,  for  the  pot 
is  not  there,  but  past  indications,  ineffective 
in  a  work  of  precision.  And  yet  the  disk 
must  be  of  a  fixed  diameter:  if  it  were  too 
large,  it  would  not  fit  in;  if  too  small,  it 
would  close  badly,  it  would  smother  the  egg 
by  sliding  down  on  the  honey.  How  shall 
it  be  given  its  correct  dimensions  without  a 
pattern?  The  Bee  does  not  hesitate  for  a 
moment.  She  cuts  out  her  disk  with  the  same 
rapidity  which  she  would  display  in  detach- 
ing any  shapeless  lobe  just  useful  for  closing; 

22 


Preface 

and  that  disk,  without  further  measurement, 
is  of  the  right  size  to  fit  the  pot.  Let  whoso 
will  explain  this  geometry,  which  in  my 
opinion  is  inexplicable,  even  when  we  allow 
for  memory  begotten  of  touch  and  sight.' 

Let  us  add  that  the  author  has  calculated 
that,  to  form  the  cells  of  a  kindred  Mega- 
chile,  the  Silky  Megachile,  exactly  1,064  o^ 
these  ellipses  and  disks  would  be  required; 
and  they  must  all  be  collected  and  shaped  in 
the  course  of  an  existence  that  lasts  a  few 
weeks. 

8 

Who  would  imagine  that  the  Pentatomlda, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  poor  and  evil-smelling 
bug  of  the  woods,  has  invented  a  really  ex- 
traordinary apparatus  wherewith  to  leave  the 
egg?  And  first  let  us  state  that  this  egg  is 
a  marvellous  little  box  of  snowy  whiteness, 
which  our  author  thus  describes : 

'The   microscope   discovers    a   surface   en- 
graved   with    dents    similar   to    those    of    a 
thimble    and    arranged   with    exquisite    sym- 
metry.    At  the  top  and  bottom  of  the  cylin- 
23 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

der  is  a  wide  belt  of  a  dead  black;  on  the 
sides,  a  large  white  zone  with  four  big,  black 
spots  evenly  distributed.  The  lid,  surrounded 
by  snowy  cilia  and  encircled  with  white  at 
the  edge,  swells  into  a  black  cap  with  a  white 
knot  in  the  centre.  Altogether,  a  dismal 
burial  urn,  with  the  sudden  contrast  between 
the  dead  black  and  the  fleecy  white.  The 
funeral  pottery  of  the  ancient  Etruscans 
would  have  found  a  magnificent  model  here.' 

The  little  bug,  whose  forehead  is  too  soft, 
covers  her  head,  to  raise  the  lid  of  the  box, 
with  a  mitre  formed  of  three  triangular  rods, 
which  Is  always  at  the  bottom  of  the  egg  at 
the  moment  of  delivery.  Her  limbs  being 
sheathed  like  those  of  a  mummy,  she  has 
nothing  wherewith  to  put  her  tringles  in 
motion  except  the  pulsations  produced  by  the 
rhythmic  flow  of  blood  in  her  skull  and  act- 
ing after  the  manner  of  a  piston.  The  rivets 
of  the  lid  gradually  give  way;  and,  as  soon 
as  the  Insect  Is  free,  she  lays  aside  her 
mechanical  helmet. 

Another  species  of  bug,  the  Reduvius  per- 
sonatiis,  which  lives  mostly  In  lumber-rooms, 
where  It  lies  hidden  In  the  dust,  has  Invented 

24 


Preface 

a  still  more  astonishing  system  of  hatching. 
Here,  the  lid  of  the  egg  is  not  riveted,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  Pentatomidae,  but  simply 
glued.  At  the  moment  of  liberation,  the  lid 
rises  and  we  see: 

' .  .  .  a  spherical  vesicle  emerge  from  the 
shell  and  gradually  expand,  like  a  soap- 
bubble  blown  through  a  straw.  Driven 
further  and  further  back  by  the  extension  of 
this  bladder,  the  lid  falls. 

'Then  the  bomb  bursts;  In  other  words, 
the  blister,  swollen  beyond  its  capacity  of 
resistance,  rips  at  the  top.  This  envelope, 
which  Is  an  extremely  tenuous  membrane, 
generally  remains  clinging  to  the  edge  of  the 
orifice,  where  it  forms  a  high,  white  rim. 
At  other  times,  the  explosion  loosens  it 
and  flings  It  outside  the  shell.  In  those  con- 
ditions, it  is  a  dainty  cup,  half  spherical,  with 
torn  edges,  lengthened  out  below  into  a  deli- 
cate, winding  stalk.' 

Now,  how  is  this  miraculous  explosion  pro- 
duced?   J.  H.  Fabre  assumes  that: 

'Very  slowly,  as  the  little  animal  takes 
shape  and  grows,  this  bladder-shaped  reser- 

2S 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

voir  receives  the  products  of  the  work  of 
respiration  performed  under  the  cover  of  the 
outer  membrane.  Instead  of  being  expelled 
through  the  egg-shell,  the  carbonic  acid,  the 
incessant  result  of  the  vital  oxidization,  is 
accumulated  in  this  sort  of  gasometer,  inflates 
and  distends  it  and  presses  upon  the  lid. 
When  the  insect  is  ripe  for  hatching,  a  super- 
added activity  in  the  respiration  completes 
the  inflation,  which  perhaps  has  been  prepar- 
ing since  the  first  evolution  of  the  germ.  At 
last,  yielding  to  the  increasing  pressure  of 
the  gaseous  bladder,  the  lid  becomes  unsealed. 
The  Chick  in  its  shell  has  its  air-chamber; 
the  young  Reduvius  has  its  bomb  of  carbonic 
acid :  it  frees  itself  in  the  act  of  breathing.' 

One  would  never  weary  of  dipping  eagerly 
Into  these  inexhaustible  treasures.  We  im- 
agine, for  instance,  that,  from  seeing  cob- 
webs so  frequently  displayed  in  all  manner  of 
places,  we  possess  adequate  notions  of  the 
genius  and  methods  of  our  familiar  spiders. 
Far  from  it:  the  realities  of  scientific  obser- 
vation call  for  an  entire  volume  crammed 
with  revelations  of  which  we  had  no  concep- 
tion. I  will  simply  name,  at  random,  the 
26 


Preface 

symmetrical  arches  of  the  Clotho  Spider's 
nest,  the  astonishing  funicular  flight  of  the 
young  of  our  Garden  Spider,  the  diving-bell 
of  the  Water  Spider,  the  live  telephone-wire 
which  connects  the  web  with  the  leg  of  the 
Cross  Spider  hidden  in  her  parlour  and  in- 
forms her  whether  the  vibration  of  her  toils 
is  due  to  the  capture  of  a  prey  or  a  caprice  of 
the  wind. 


It  is  impossible,  therefore,  short  of  having 
unlimited  space  at  one's  disposal,  to  do  more 
than  touch,  as  it  were  with  the  tip  of  the 
phrases,  upon,  the  miracles  of  maternal  in- 
stinct, which,  moreover,  are  confounded  with 
those  of  the  higher  manufactures  and  form 
the  bright  centre  of  the  insect's  psychology. 
One  would,  in  the  same  way,  require  several 
chapters  to  convey  a  summary  idea  of  the 
nuptial  rites  which  constitute  the  quaintest 
and  most  fabulous  episodes  of  these  new 
Arabian  Nights. 

The  male  of  the  Spanish-fly,  for  instance, 
begins  by  frenziedly  beating  his  spouse  with 
his  abdomen  and  his  feet,  after  which,  with 

27 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

his  arms  crossed  and  quivering,  he  remains 
long  in  ecstasy.  The  newly-wedded  Osmiae 
clap  their  mandibles  terribly,  as  though  it 
were  a  matter  rather  of  devouring  each 
other;  on  the  other  hand,  the  largest  of  our 
moths,  the  Great  Peacock,  who  is  the  size  of 
a  bat,  when  drunk  with  love  finds  his  mouth 
so  completely  atrophied  that  it  becomes  no 
more  than  a  vague  shadow.  But  nothing 
equals  the  marriage  of  the  Green  Grasshop- 
per, of  which  I  cannot  speak  here,  for  it  is 
doubtful  whether  even  the  Latin  language 
possesses  the  words  needed  to  describe  it  as 
it  should  be  described. 

All  said,  the  marriage  customs  are  dread- 
ful and,  contrary  to  that  which  happens  in 
every  other  world,  here  it  is  the  female  of 
the  pair  that  stands  for  strength  and  intelli- 
gence and  also  for  cruelty  and  tyranny,  which 
appear  to  be  their  inevitable  consequence. 
Almost  every  wedding  ends  in  the  violent 
and  immediate  death  of  the  husband.  Often, 
the  bride  begins  by  eating  a  certain  number 
of  suitors.  The  archetype  of  these  fantastic 
unions  could  be  supplied  by  the  Languedo- 
cian  Scorpions,  who,  as  we  know,  carry 
lobster-claws  and  a  long  tail  supplied  with  a 
28 


Preface 

sting,  the  prick  of  which  is  extremely  dan- 
gerous. They  have  a  prelude  to  the  festival 
in  the  shape  of  a  sentimental  stroll,  claw  in 
claw;  then,  motionless,  with  fingers  still 
gripped,  they  contemplate  each  other  bliss- 
fully, interminably:  day  and  night  pass  over 
their  ecstasy  while  they  remain  face  to 
face,  petrified  with  admiration.  Next,  the 
foreheads  come  together  and  touch;  the 
mouths — if  we  can  give  the  name  of  mouth 
to  the  monstrous  orifice  that  opens  between 
the  claws — are  joined  in  a  sort  of  kiss;  after 
which  the  union  is  accomplished,  the  male  Is 
transfixed  with  a  mortal  sting  and  the  ter- 
rible spouse  crunches  and  gobbles  him  up  with 
gusto. 

But  the  Mantis,  the  ecstatic  insect  with  the 
arms  always  raised  in  an  attitude  of  supreme 
invocation,  the  horrible  Mantis  religiosa  or 
Praying  Mantis,  does  better  still:  she  eats 
her  husbands  (for  the  insatiable  creature 
sometimes  consumes  seven  or  eight  in  succes- 
sion), while  they  strain  her  passionately  to 
their  heart.  Her  inconceivable  kisses  devour, 
not  metaphorically,  but  in  an  appallingly  real 
fashion,  the  ill-fated  choice  of  her  soul  or 
her  stomach.  She  begins  with  the  head, 
29 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

goes  down  to  the  thorax,  nor  stops  till  she 
comes  to  the  hind-legs,  which  she  deems  too 
tough.  She  then  pushes  away  the  unfortu- 
nate remains,  while  a  new  lover,  who  was 
quietly  awaiting  the  end  of  the  monstrous 
banquet,  heroically  steps  forward  to  undergo 
the  same  fate. 

J.  H.  Fabre  is  indeed  the  revealer  of  this 
new  world,  for,  strange  as  the  admission  may 
seem  at  a  time  when  we  think  that  we  know  all 
that  surrounds  us,  most  of  those  insects  mi- 
nutely described  in  the  vocabularies,  learnedly 
classified  and  barbarously  christened  had 
hardly  ever  been  observed  in  real  life  or  thor- 
oughly investigated,  in  all  the  phases  of  their 
brief  and  evasive  appearances.  He  has  devoted 
to  surprising  their  little  secrets,  v/hich  are  the 
reverse  of  our  greatest  mysteries,  fifty  years 
of  a  solitary  existence,  misunderstood,  poor, 
often  very  near  to  penury,  but  lit  up  every 
day  by  the  joy  which  a  truth  brings,  which  is 
the  greatest  of  all  human  joys.  Petty  truths, 
I  shall  be  told,  those  presented  by  the  habits 
of  a  spider  or  a  grasshopper.  There  are 
no  petty  truths  to-day;  there  is  but  one  truth, 
whose  looking-glass,  to  our  uncertain  eyes, 
seems  broken,  though  its  every  fragment, 
30 


Preface 

whether  reflecting  the  evolution  of  a  planet 
or  the  flight  of  a  bee,  contains  the  supreme 
law. 

And  these  truths  thus  discovered  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  grasped  by  a  mind  which 
knew  how  to  understand  what  they  them- 
selves can  but  ambiguously  express,  to  inter- 
pret what  they  are  obliged  to  conceal  and,  at 
the  same  time,  to  appreciate  the  shimmering 
beauty,  almost  invisible  to  the  majority  of 
mankind,  that  shines  for  a  moment  around 
all  that  exists,  especially  around  that  which 
still  remains  very  close  to  nature  and  has 
hardly  left  its  primeval  obscurity. 

To  make  of  these  long  annals  the  generous 
and  delightful  masterpiece  that  they  are  and 
not  the  monotonous  and  arid  register  of  little 
descriptions  and  insignificant  acts  that  they 
might  have  been,  various  and  so  to  speak 
conflicting  gifts  were  needed.  To  the 
patience,  the  precision,  the  scientific  minute- 
ness, the  protean  and  practical  ingenuity,  the 
energy  of  a  Darwin  in  the  face  of  the  un- 
known, to  the  faculty  of  expressing  what  has 
to  be  expressed  with  order,  clearness  and  cer- 
tainty, the  venerable  anchorite  of  Serignan 
adds  many  of  those  qualities  which  are  not  to 

31 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

be  acquired,  certain  of  those  innate  good 
poetic  virtues  which  cause  his  sure  and  supple 
prose,  devoid  of  artificial  ornament  and  yet 
adorned  with  simple  and  as  it  were  uninten- 
tional charm,  to  take  its  place  among  the  ex- 
cellent and  lasting  prose  of  the  day,  prose 
of  the  kind  that  has  its  own  atmosphere,  in 
which  we  breathe  gratefully  and  tranquilly 
and  which  we  find  only  around  masterpieces. 
Lastly,  there  was  needed — and  this  was  not 
the  least  requirement  of  the  work — a  mind 
ever  ready  to  cope  with  the  riddles  which, 
among  those  little  objects,  rise  up  at  every 
step,  as  enormous  as  those  which  fill  the 
skies  and  perhaps  more  numerous,  more  im- 
perious and  more  strange,  as  though  nature 
had  here  given  a  freer  scope  to  her  last  wishes 
and  an  easier  outlet  to  her  secret  thoughts. 
He  shrinks  from  none  of  those  boundless 
problems  which  are  persistently  put  to  us  by 
all  the  inhabitants  of  that  tiny  world  where 
mysteries  are  heaped  up  in  a  denser  and  more 
bewildering  fashion  than  in  any  other.  He 
thus  meets  and  faces,  turn  by  turn,  the  re- 
doubtable questions  of  instinct  and  intelli- 
gence, of  the  origin  of  species,  of  the 
harmony  or  the  accidents  of  the  universe,  of 
32 


Preface 

the  life  lavished  upon  the  abysses  of  death, 
without  counting  the  no  less  vast,  but  so  to 
speak  more  human  problems  which,  among 
infinite  others,  are  inscribed  within  the  range, 
if  not  within  the  grasp,  of  our  intelligence: 
parthenogenesis;  the  prodigious  geometry 
of  the  wasps  and  bees ;  the  logarithmic  spiral 
of  the  Snail;  the  antennary  sense;  the  miracu- 
lous force  which,  in  absolute  isolation,  with- 
out the  possible  introduction  of  anything 
from  the  outside,  increases  the  volume  of  the 
Minotaurus'  egg  ten-fold,  where  it  lies,  and, 
during  seven  to  nine  months,  nourishes  with 
an  invisible  and  spiritual  food,  not  the  leth- 
argy, but  the  active  life  of  the  Scorpion  and 
of  the  young  of  the  Lycosa  and  the  Clothe 
Spider.  He  does  not  attempt  to  explain  them 
by  one  of  those  generally-acceptable  theories 
such  as  that  of  evolution,  which  merely  shifts 
the  ground  of  the  difficulty  and  which,  I  may 
mention  in  passing,  emerges  from  these 
volumes  in  a  somewhat  sorry  plight,  after 
being  sharply  confronted  with  incontestable 
facts. 

Waiting  for  chance  or  a  god  to  enlighten 
us,  he  is  able,  in  the  presence  of  the  un- 
known, to  preserve  that  great  religious  and 

33 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

attentive  silence  which  is  dominant  in  the  best 
minds  of  the  day.     There  are  those  who  say: 

'Now  that  you  have  reaped  a  plentiful 
harvest  of  details,  you  should  follow  up  an- 
alysis with  synthesis  and  generalize  the  origin 
of  instinct  in  an  all-embracing  view.' 

To  these  he  replies,  with  the  humble  and 
magnificent  loyalty  that  illumines  all  his 
work: 

'Because  I  have  stirred  a  few  grains  of  sand 
on  the  shore,  am  I  in  a  position  to  know  the 
depths  of  the  ocean  ? 

'Life  has  unfathomable  secrets.  Human 
knowledge  will  be  erased  from  the  archives 
of  the  world  before  we  possess  the  last  word 
that  the  Gnat  has  to  say  to  us. .  .  . 

'Success  is  for  the  loud  talkers,  the  self- 
convinced  dogmatists;  everything  is  admitted 
on  condition  that  it  be  noisily  proclaimed. 
Let  us  throw  off  this  sham  and  recognize  that, 
in  reality,  we  know  nothing  about  anything, 
if  things  were  probed  to  the  bottom.  Scien- 
tifically, Nature  is  a  riddle  without  a  definite 
solution  to  satisfy  man's  curiosity.  Hypoth- 
esis follows  on  hypothesis;  the  theoretical 
rubbish-heap    accumulates;    and    truth    ever 

34 


Preface 

eludes  us.    To  know  how  not  to  know  might 
well  be  the  last  word  of  wisdom.' 

Evidently,  this  is  hoping  too  little.  In  the 
frightful  pit,  in  the  bottomless  funnel  where- 
in whirl  all  those  contradictory  facts  which 
are  resolved  in  obscurity,  we  know  just  as 
much  as  our  cave-dwelling  ancestors;  but  at 
least  we  know  that  we  do  not  know.  We 
survey  the  dark  faces  of  all  the  riddles,  we 
try  to  estimate  their  number,  to  classify  their 
varying  degrees  of  dimness,  to  obtain  an  idea 
of  their  places  and  extent.  That  already  is 
something,  pending  the  day  of  the  first  gleams 
of  light.  In  any  case,  it  means  doing,  in  the 
presence  of  the  mysteries,  all  that  the  most 
upright  intelligence  can  do  to-day;  and  that 
is  what  the  author  of  this  incomparable  Iliad 
does,  with  more  confidence  than  he  professes. 
He  gazes  at  them  attentively.  He  wears  out 
his  life  in  surprising  their  most  minute  se- 
crets. He  prepares  for  them,  in  his  thoughts 
and  in  ours,  the  field  necessary  for  their  evo- 
lutions. He  increases  the  consciousness  of  his 
ignorance  in  proportion  to  their  importance 
and  learns  to  understand  more  and  more  that 
they  are  incomprehensible. 

Maurice  Maeterlinick. 

35 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

The  following  essays  have  been  selected 
from  the  ten  volumes  composing  the  Souvenirs 
entomologiques.  Although  a  good  deal  of 
Henri  Fabre's  masterpiece  has  been  published 
in  English,  none  of  the  articles  treating  of 
spiders  has  been  issued  before,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  that  forming  Chapter  II  of  the  pres- 
ent volume.  The  Banded  Epeira,  which  first 
appeared  in  The  English  Review.  The  rest 
are  new  to  England  and  America. 

The  Fabre  books  already  published  are 
Insect  Life,  translated  by  the  author  of  Made- 
moiselle Mori  (Macmillan  Co.,  1901)  ;  The 
Life  and  Love  of  the  Insect,  translated  by 
myself  (Macmillan  Co.,  1911);  and  Social 
Life  in  the  Insect  World,  translated  by  Mr. 
Bernard  Miall  (Century  Co.,  19 12).  Refer- 
ences to  the  above  volumes  will  be  found, 
whenever  necessary.  In  the  foot-notes  to  the 
present  edition. 

For  the  rest,  I  have  tried  not  to  overburden 
my  version  with  notes;  and,  in  view  of  this,  I 
have,  as  far  as  possible,  simplified  the  scien- 
36 


Preface 

tific  terms  that  occur  in  the  text.  In  so  doing 
I  know  that  I  have  but  followed  the  wishes 
of  the  author,  who  never  wearies  of  protest- 
ing against  'the  barbarous  terminology'  fa- 
voured by  his  brother-naturalists.  The  mat- 
ter became  even  more  urgent  in  English  than 
in  any  of  the  Latin  languages;  and  I  readily 
agreed  when  it  was  pointed  out  to  me  that,  in 
a  work  essentially  intended  for  general  read- 
ing, there  was  no  purpose  in  speaking  of  a 
Coleopteron  when  the  word  'beetle'  was  to 
hand.  In  cases  where  an  insect  had  inevitably 
to  be  mentioned  by  its  Greek  or  Latin  name, 
a  note  is  given  explaining,  in  the  fewest  words, 
the  nature  of  the  insect  in  question. 

I  have  to  thank  my  friend,  M.  Maurice 
Maeterlinck,  for  the  stately  preface  which  he 
has  contributed  to  this  volume,  and  Mr.  Mar- 
maduke  Langdale  and  Miss  Frances  Rodwell 
for  the  generous  assistance  which  they  have 
given  me  in  the  details  of  my  work.  And  I 
am  also  greatly  indebted  to  Mr.  W.  S.  Graff 
Baker  for  his  invaluable  help  with  the  mathe- 
matical difficulties  that  confronted  me  in  the 
translation  of  the  Appendix. 

Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos. 

Chelsea^  io  October,  19 12. 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  BLACK-BELLIED  TARANTULA 

npHE  Spider  has  a  bad  name:  to  most  of 
■*-  us,  she  represents  an  odious,  noxious  ani- 
mal, which  every  one  hastens  to  crush  under 
foot.  Against  this  summary  verdict  the  ob- 
server sets  the  beast's  industry,  its  talent  as  a 
weaver,  its  wiliness  in  the  chase,  its  tragic  nup- 
tials and  other  characteristics  of  great  inter- 
est. Yes,  the  Spider  is  well  worth  studying, 
apart  from  any  scientific  reasons;  but  she  is 
said  to  be  poisonous,  and  that  is  her  crime  and 
the  primary  cause  of  the  repugnance  where- 
with she  inspires  us.  Poisonous,  I  agree,  if  by 
that  we  understand  that  the  animal  is  armed 
with  two  fangs  which  cause  the  immediate 
death  of  the  little  victims  which  it  catches;  but 
there  is  a  wide  difference  between  killing  a 
Midge  and  harming  a  man.  However  imme- 
diate in  its  effects  upon  the  insect  entangled 
In  the  fatal  web,  the  Spider's  poison  is  not 
serious  for  us  and  causes  less  inconvenience 
than  a  Gnat-bite.    That,  at  least,  is  what  we 

39 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

can  safely  say  as  regards  the  great  majority  of 
the  Spiders  of  our  regions. 

Nevertheless,  a  few  are  to  be  feared;  and 
foremost  among  these  Is  the  Malmignatte,  the 
terror  of  the  Corsican  peasantry.  I  have  seen 
her  settle  In  the  furrows,  lay  out  her  web  and 
rush  boldly  at  Insects  larger  than  herself;  I 
have  admired  her  garb  of  black  velvet  spec- 
kled with  carmine-red;  above  all,  I  have  heard 
most  disquieting  stories  told  about  her. 
Around  Ajaccio  and  Bonifacio,  her  bite  Is  re- 
puted very  dangerous,  sometimes  mortal.  The 
countryman  declares  this  for  a  fact  and  the 
doctor  does  not  always  dare  deny  it.  In  the 
neighbourhood  of  Pujaud,  nor  far  from  Avig- 
non, the  harvesters  speak  with  dread  of 
Theridion  lugubre,^  first  observed  by  Leon 
Dufour  In  the  Catalonlan  mountains;  accord- 
ing to  them,  her  bite  would  lead  to  serious  ac- 
cidents. The  Italians  have  bestowed  a  bad 
reputation  on  the  Tarantula,  who  produces 
convulsions  and  frenzied  dances  In  the  person 
stung  by  her.  To  cope  with  'tarantism,'  the 
name  given  to  the  disease  that  follows  on  the 
bite  of  the  Italian  Spider,  you  must  have  re- 
course to  music,  the  only  efficacious  remedy, 

^A    small    or    moderate-sized    Spider    found    among 
foliage. — Translator's  Note. 
40 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

so  they  tell  us.  Special  tunes  have  been  noted, 
those  quickest  to  afford  relief.  There  is  medi- 
cal choreography,  medical  music.  And  have 
we  not  the  tarantella,  a  lively  and  nimble 
dance,  bequeathed  to  us  perhaps  by  the  heal- 
ing art  of  the  Calabrian  peasant? 

Must  we  take  these  queer  things  seriously 
or  laugh  at  them  ?  From  the  little  that  I  have 
seen,  I  hesitate  to  pronounce  an  opinion. 
Nothing  tells  us  that  the  bite  of  the  Taran- 
tula may  not  provoke,  in  weak  and  very  im- 
pressionable people,  a  nervous  disorder  which 
music  will  relieve ;  nothing  tells  us  that  a  pro- 
fuse perspiration,  resulting  from  a  very  ener- 
getic dance,  is  not  likely  to  diminish  the  dis- 
comfort by  diminishing  the  cause  of  the  ail- 
ment. So  far  from  laughing,  I  reflect  and  en- 
quire, when  the  Calabrian  peasant  talks  to  me 
of  his  Tarantula,  the  Pujaud  reaper  of  his 
Theridion  lugubre,  the  Corsican  husbandman 
of  his  Malmignatte.  Those  Spiders  m/ight 
easily  deserve,  at  least  partly,  their  terrible 
reputation. 

The  most  powerful  Spider  in  my  district, 
the  Black-bellied  Tarantula,  will  presently 
give  us  something  to  think  about,  in  this  con- 
nection.    It  is  not  my  business  to  discuss  a 

41 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

medical  point,  I  interest  myself  especially  in 
matters  of  instinct;  but,  as  the  poison- fangs 
play  a  leading  part  in  the  huntress's  man- 
CEUvres  of  war,  I  shall  speak  of  their  effects 
by  the  way.  The  habits  of  the  Tarantula,  her 
ambushes,  her  artifices,  her  methods  of  killing 
her  prey:  these  constitute  my  subject.  I  will 
preface  it  with  an  account  by  Leon  Dufour,'^ 
one  of  those  accounts  in  which  I  used  to  de- 
light and  which  did  much  to  bring  me  into 
closer  touch  with  the  insect.  The  Wizard 
of  the  Landes  tells  us  of  the  ordinary  Taran- 
tula, that  of  the  Calabrlas,  observed  by  him 
in  Spain: 

^Lycosa  tarantula  by  preference  inhabits 
open  places,  dry,  arid,  uncultivated  places, 
exposed  to  the  sun.  She  lives  generally — at 
least  when  full-grown — in  underground  pas- 
sages, regular  burrows,  which  she  digs  for 
herself.  These  burrows  are  cylindrical;  they 
are  often  an  inch  in  diameter  and  run  into  the 
ground  to  a  depth  of  more  than  a  foot;  but 
they  are  not  perpendicular.  The  inhabitant 
of  this  gut  proves  that  she  is  at  the  same 

'Leon  Dufour  (1780-1865)  was  an  army  surgeon  who 
served  with  distinction  in  several  campaigns  and  subse- 
quently practised  as  a  doctor  in  the  Landes.  He  attained 
great  eminence  as  a  naturalist. — Translato/s  Note. 

42 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

time  a  skilful  hunter  and  an  able  engineer. 
It  was  a  question  for  her  not  only  of  con- 
structing a  deep  retreat  that  could  hide  her 
from  the  pursuit  of  her  foes :  she  also  had  to 
set  up  her  observatory  whence  to  watch  for 
her  prey  and  dart  out  upon  it.  The  Taran- 
tula provides  for  every  contingency:  the 
underground  passage,  in  fact,  begins  by  being 
vertical,  but,  at  four  or  five  inches  from  the 
surface,  it  bends  at  an  obtuse  angle,  forms  a 
horizontal  turning  and  then  becomes  perpen- 
dicular once  more.  It  is  at  the  elbow  of  this 
tunnel  that  the  Tarantula  posts  herself  as  a 
vigilant  sentry  and  does  not  for  a  moment 
lose  sight  of  the  door  of  her  dwelling;  it  was 
there  that,  at  the  period  when  I  was  hunting 
her,  I  used  to  see  those  eyes  gleaming  like 
diamonds,  bright  as  a  cat's  eyes  in  the  dark. 
'The  outer  orifice  of  the  Tarantula's  bur- 
row is  usually  surmounted  by  a  shaft  con- 
structed throughout  by  herself.  It  is  a  gen- 
uine work  of  architecture,  standing  as  much 
as  an  inch  above  the  ground  and  sometimes 
two  inches  in  diameter,  so  that  it  is  wider 
than  the  burrow  itself.  This  last  circum- 
stance, which  seems  to  have  been  calculated 
by  the  industrious  Spider,  lends  itself  admir- 

43 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

ably  to  the  necessary  extension  of  the  legs  at 
the  moment  when  the  prey  is  to  be  seized. 
The  shaft  is  composed  mainly  of  bits  of  dry 
wood  joined  by  a  little  clay  and  so  artistically 
laid,  one  above  the  other,  that  they  form  the 
scaffolding  of  a  straight  column,  the  inside 
of  which  is  a  hollow  cylinder.  The  solidity 
of  this  tubular  building,  of  this  outwork,  is 
ensured  above  all  by  the  fact  that  it  is  lined, 
upholstered  within,  with  a  texture  woven 
by  the  Lycosa's^  spinnerets  and  continued 
throughout  the  interior  of  the  burrow.  It  is 
easy  to  imagine  how  useful  this  cleverly- 
manufactured  lining  must  be  for  preventing 
landslip  or  warping,  for  maintaining  clean- 
liness and  for  helping  her  claws  to  scale  the 
fortress, 

'I  hinted  that  this  outv/ork  of  the  burrow 
was  not  there  invariably;  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  have  often  come  across  Tarantulas'  holes 
without  a  trace  of  it,  perhaps  because  it 
had  been  accidentally  destroyed  by  the 
weather,  or  because  the  Lycosa  may  not  al- 

*  The  Tarantula  is  a  Lycosa,  or  Wolf-spider  Fabre's 
Tarantula,  the  Black-bellied  Tarantula,  is  identical  with 
the  Narbonne  Lycosa,  under  which  name  the  description 
is  continued  in  Chapters  in.  to  vi.,  all  of  which  were 
written  at  a  considerably  later  date  than  the  present 
chapter. — Translator's  Note. 

44 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

ways  light  upon  the  proper  building-materials, 
or,  lastly,  because  architectural  talent  is  pos- 
sibly declared  only  in  individuals  that  have 
reached  the  final  stage,  the  period  of  per- 
fection of  their  physical  and  intellectual 
development. 

'One  thing  is  certain,  that  I  have  had 
numerous  opportunities  of  seeing  these  shafts, 
these  outworks  of  the  Tarantula's  abode;  they 
remind  me,  on  a  larger  scale,  of  the  tubes 
of  certain  Caddis-worms.  The  Arachnid  had 
more  than  one  object  in  view  in  constructing 
them:  she  shelters  her  retreat  from  the  floods; 
she  protects  it  from  the  fall  of  foreign  bodies 
which,  swept  by  the  wind,  might  end  by  ob- 
structing it;  lastly,  she  uses  it  as  a  snare  by 
offering  the  Flies  and  other  insects  whereon 
she  feeds  a  projecting  point  to  settle  on. 
Who  shall  tell  us  all  the  wiles  employed  by 
this  clever  and  daring  huntress? 

'Let  us  now  say  something  about  my 
rather  diverting  Tarantula-hunts.  The  best 
season  for  them  is  the  months  of  May  and 
June.  The  first  time  that  I  lighted  on  this 
Spider's  burrows  and  discovered  that  they 
were  inhabited  by  seeing  her  come  to  a  point 
on  the  first  floor  of  her  dwelling — the  elbow 
45 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

which  I  have  mentioned — I  thought  that  1 
must  attack  her  by  main  force  and  pursue  her 
relentlessly  in  order  to  capture  her;  I  spent 
whole  hours  in  opening  up  the  trench  with 
a  knife  a  foot  long  by  two  inches  wide,  with- 
out meeting  the  Tarantula.  I  renewed  the 
operation  in  other  burrows,  always  with  the 
same  want  of  success;  I  really  wanted  a  pick- 
axe to  achieve  my  object,  but  I  was  too  far 
from  any  kind  of  house.  I  was  obliged  to 
change  my  plan  of  attack,  and  I  resorted  to 
craft.  Necessity,  they  say,  is  the  mother  of 
invention. 

'It  occurred  to  me  to  take  a  stalk,  topped 
with  its  spikelet,  by  way  of  a  bait,  and  to 
rub  and  move  it  gently  at  the  orifice  of  the 
burrow.  I  soon  saw  that  the  Lycosa's  at- 
tention and  desires  were  roused.  Attracted 
by  the  bait,  she  came  with  measured  steps 
towards  the  spikelet.  I  withdrew  It  In  good 
time  a  little  outside  the  hole,  so  as  not  to 
leave  the  animal  time  for  reflexion;  and  the 
Spider  suddenly,  with  a  rush,  darted  out  of 
her  dwelling,  of  which  I  hastened  to  close 
the  entrance.  The  Tarantula,  bewildered  by 
her  unaccustomed  liberty,  was  very  awkward 
in  evading  my  attempts  at  capture ;  and  I  com- 
46 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

pelled  her  to  enter  a  paper  bag,  which  I 
closed  without  delay. 

'Sometimes,  suspecting  the  trap,  or  per- 
haps less  pressed  by  hunger,  she  would  remain 
coy  and  motionless,  at  a  slight  distance  from 
the  threshold,  which  she  did  not  think  it  oppor- 
tune to  cross.  Her  patience  outlasted  mine. 
In  that  case,  I  employed  the  following  tac- 
tics: after  making  sure  of  the  Lycosa's  posi- 
tion and  the  direction  of  the  tunnel,  I  drove 
a  knife  into  it  on  the  slant,  so  as  to  take  the 
animal  in  the  rear  and  cut  off  its  retreat  by 
stopping  up  the  burrow.  I  seldom  failed  in 
my  attempt,  especially  in  soil  that  was  not 
stony.  In  these  critical  circumstances,  either 
the  Tarantula  took  fright  and  deserted  her 
lair  for  the  open,  or  else  she  stubbornly  re- 
mained with  her  back  to  the  blade.  I  would 
then  give  a  sudden  jerk  to  the  knife,  which 
flung  both  the  earth  and  the  Lycosa  to  a 
distance,  enabling  me  to  capture  her.  By 
employing  this  hunting-method,  I  sometimes 
caught  as  many  as  fifteen  Tarantulge  within 
the  space  of  an  hour. 

'In  a  few  cases,  in  which  the  Tarantula 
was  under  no  misapprehension  as  to  the  trap 
which  I  was  setting  for  her,  I  was  not  a  lit- 

47 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

tie  surprised,  when  I  pushed  the  stalk  far 
enough  down  to  twist  it  round  her  hiding- 
place,  to  see  her  play  with  the  spikelet  more 
or  less  contemptuously  and  push  it  away  with 
her  legs,  without  troubling  to  retreat  to  the 
back  of  her  lair. 

'The  Apulian  peasants,  according  to 
Baglivi's^  account,  also  hunt  the  Tarantula 
by  imitating  the  humming  of  an  insect  with 
an  oat-stalk  at  the  entrance  to  her  burrow. 
I  quote  the  passage: 

'  ''''Ruricola  nostri  quando  eas  capture  vo- 
lunt,  ad  illorum  latibula  accedunt,  tenuisque 
avenacea  fistula  sonum,  apum  murmiiri  non 
absimilem,  modulantur.  Quo  audita,  ferox 
exit  Tarentula  ut  muscas  vel  alia  hujus  modi 
insecta,  quorum  murmur  esse  putat,  captat; 
captatur  tamen  ista  a  rustico  insidiatore!'  ^ 

'The  Tarantula,  so  dreadful  at  first  sight, 
especially  when  we  are  filled  with  the  idea 

^Giorgio  Baglivi  (1669-1707),  professor  of  anatomy 
and  medicine  at  Rome. — Translator's  Note. 

"'When  our  husbandmen  wish  to  catch  them,  they  ap- 
proach their  hiding-places,  and  play  on  a  thin  grass  pipe, 
making  a  sound  not  unlike  the  humming  of  bees.  Hear- 
ing which,  the  Tarantula  rushes  out  fiercely  that  she 
may  catch  the  flies  or  other  insects  of  this  kind,  whose 
buzzing  she  thinks  it  to  be ;  but  she  herself  is  caught  by 
her  rustic  trapper." 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

that  her  bite  is  dangerous,  so  fierce  in  appear- 
ance, is  nevertheless  quite  easy  to  tame,  as  I 
have  often  found  by  experiment. 

'On  the  7th  of  May  18 12,  while  at  Va- 
lencia, in  Spain,  I  caught  a  fair-sized  male 
Tarantula,  without  hurting  him,  and  im- 
prisoned him  in  a  glass  jar,  with  a  paper  cover 
in  which  I  cut  a  trap-door.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  jar  I  put  a  paper  bag,  to  serve  as  his 
habitual  residence.  I  placed  the  jar  on  a 
table  in  my  bedroom,  so  as  to  have  him  under 
frequent  observation.  He  soon  grew  accus- 
tomed to  captivity  and  ended  by  becoming 
so  familiar  that  he  would  come  and  take  from 
my  fingers  the  live  Fly  which  I  gave  him. 
After  killing  his  victim  with  the  fangs  of  his 
mandibles,  he  was  not  satisfied,  like  most 
Spiders,  to  suck  her  head:  he  chewed  her 
whole  body,  shoving  it  piecemeal  Into  his 
mouth  with  his  palpi,  after  which  he  threw 
up  the  masticated  teguments  and  swept  them 
away  from  his  lodging. 

'Having  finished  his  meal,  he  nearly  al- 
ways made  his  toilet,  which  consisted  in 
brushing  his  palpi  and  mandibles,  both  inside 
and  out,  with  his  front  tarsi.  After  that,  he 
resumed  his  air  of  motionless  gravity.     The 

49 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

evening  and  the  night  were  his  time  for  tak« 
ing  his  walks  abroad.  I  often  heard  him 
scratching  the  paper  of  the  bag.  These  habits 
confirm  the  opinion,  which  I  have  already 
expressed  elsewhere,  that  most  Spiders  have 
the  faculty  of  seeing  by  day  and  night,  like 
cats. 

'On  the  28th  of  June,  my  Tarantula  cast 
his  skin.  It  was  his  last  moult  and  did  not 
perceptibly  alter  either  the  colour  of  his  at- 
tire or  the  dimensions  of  his  body.  On  the 
14th  of  July,  I  had  to  leave  Valencia;  and 
I  stayed  away  until  the  23d.  During  this 
time,  the  Tarantula  fasted ;  I  found  him  look- 
ing quite  well  on  my  return.  On  the  20th  of 
August,  I  again  left  for  a  nine  days'  absence, 
which  my  prisoner  bore  without  food  and 
without  detriment  to  his  health.  On  the  ist 
of  October,  I  once  more  deserted  the  Taran- 
tula, leaving  him  without  provisions.  On 
the  2ist,  I  was  fifty  miles  from  Valencia, 
and  as  I  intended  to  remain  there,  I  sent  a 
servant  to  fetch  him.  I  was  sorry  to  learn 
that  he  was  not  found  in  the  jar,  and  I  never 
heard  what  became  of  him. 

'I  will  end  my  observations  on  the  Taran- 
tulae  with  a  short  description  of  a  curious 
50 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

fight  between  those  animals.  One  day,  when 
I  had  had  a  successful  hunt  after  these 
Lycoss,  I  picked  out  two  full-grown  and 
very  powerful  males  and  brought  them  to- 
gether in  a  wide  jar,  in  order  to  enjoy  the 
sight  of  a  combat  to  the  death.  After  walk- 
ing round  the  arena  several  times,  to  try  and 
avoid  each  other,  they  were  not  slow  In 
placing  themselves  in  a  warlike  attitude,  as 
though  at  a  given  signal.  I  saw  them,  to  my 
surprise,  take  their  distances  and  sit  up 
solemnly  on  their  hind-legs,  so  as  mutually  to 
present  the  shield  of  their  chests  to  each 
other.  After  watching  them  face  to  face  like 
that  for  two  minutes,  during  which  they  had 
doubtless  provoked  each  other  by  glances 
that  escaped  my  own,  I  saw  them  fling  them- 
selves upon  each  other  at  the  same  time, 
twisting  their  legs  round  each  other  and  ob- 
stinately struggling  to  bite  each  other  with 
the  fangs  of  the  mandibles.  Whether  from 
fatigue  or  from  convention,  the  combat  was 
suspended;  there  was  a  few  seconds'  truce; 
and  each  athlete  moved  away  and  resumed 
his  threatening  posture.  This  circumstance 
reminded  me  that,  in  the  strange  fights  be- 
tween cats,  there  are  also  suspensions  of 
SI 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

hostilities.  But  the  contest  was  soon  renewed 
between  my  two  Tarantulae  with  increased 
fierceness.  One  of  them,  after  holding  vic- 
tory in  the  balance  for  a  while,  was  at  last 
thrown  and  received  a  mortal  wound  in  the 
head.  He  became  the  prey  of  the  conqueror, 
who  tore  open  his  skull  and  devoured  it. 
After  this  curious  duel,  I  kept  the  victorious 
Tarantula  alive  for  several  weeks.' 

My  district  does  not  boast  the  ordinary 
Tarantula,  the  Spider  whose  habits  have 
been  described  above  by  the  Wizard  of  the 
Landes;  but  it  possesses  an  equivalent  in  the 
shape  of  the  Black-bellied  Tarantula,  or  Nar- 
bonne  Lycosa,  half  the  size  of  the  other,  clad 
in  black  velvet  on  the  lower  surface,  espe- 
cially under  the  belly,  with  brown  chevrons  on 
the  abdomen  and  grey  and  white  rings  around 
the  legs.  Her  favourite  home  is  the  dry, 
pebbly  ground,  covered  with  sun-scorched 
thyme.  In  my  harmas^  laboratory  there  are 
quite  twenty  of  this  Spider's  burrows.  Rarely 
do  I  pass  by  one  of  these  haunts  without 
giving  a  glance  down  the  pit  where  gleam, 

^Provengal  for  the  bit  of  waste  ground  on  which  the 
author  studies  his  insects  in  the  natural  state. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

52 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

like  diamonds,  the  four  great  eyes,  the  four 
telescopes,  of  the  hermit.  The  four  others, 
which  are  much  smaller,  are  not  visible  at  that 
depth. 

Would  I  have  greater  riches,  I  have  but 
to  walk  a  hundred  yards  from  my  house,  on 
the  neighbouring  plateau,  once  a  shady  forest, 
to-day  a  dreary  solitude  where  the  Cricket 
browses  and  the  Wheat-ear  flits  from  stone 
to  stone.  The  love  of  lucre  has  laid  waste 
the  land.  Because  wine  paid  handsomely, 
they  pulled  up  the  forest  to  plant  the  vine. 
Then  came  the  Phylloxera,  the  vine-stocks 
perished  and  the  once  green  table-land  is  now 
no  more  than  a  desolate  stretch  where  a  few 
tufts  of  hardy  grasses  sprout  among  the 
pebbles.  This  waste-land  Is  the  Lycosa's 
paradise;  in  an  hour's  time.  If  need  were,  I 
should  discover  a  hundred  burrows  within  a 
limited  range. 

These  dwellings  are  pits  about  a  foot  deep, 
perpendicular  at  first  and  then  bent  elbow- 
wise.  The  average  diameter  Is  an  inch.  On 
the  edge  of  the  hole  stands  a  kerb,  formed  of 
straw,  bits  and  scraps  of  all  sorts  and  even 
small  pebbles,  the  size  of  a  hazel-nut.  The 
whole  is  kept  In  place  and  cemented  with  silk. 

S3 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Often,  the  Spider  confines  herself  to  drawing 
together  the  dry  blades  of  the  nearest  grass, 
which  she  ties  down  with  the  straps  of  her 
spinnerets,  without  removing  the  blades  from 
the  stems;  often,  also,  she  rejects  this  scaffold- 
ing in  favour  of  a  masonry  constructed  of 
small  stones.  The  nature  of  the  kerb  is  de- 
cided by  the  nature  of  the  materials  within 
the  Lycosa's  reach,  in  the  close  neighbour- 
hood of  the  building-yard.  There  Is  no 
selection:  everything  meets  with  approval, 
provided  that  it  be  near  at  hand. 

Economy  of  time,  therefore,  causes  the  de- 
fensive wall  to  vary  greatly  as  regards  its 
constituent  elements.  The  height  varies  also. 
One  enclosure  Is  a  turret  an  inch  high; 
another  amounts  to  a  mere  rim.  All  have 
their  parts  bound  firmly  together  with  silk; 
and  all  have  the  same  width  as  the  subter- 
ranean channel,  of  which  they  are  the  exten- 
sion. There  Is  here  no  difference  in  diameter 
between  the  underground  manor  and  its  out- 
work, nor  do  we  behold,  at  the  opening,  the 
platform  which  the  turret  leaves  to  give  free 
play  to  the  Italian  Tarantula's  legs.  The 
Black-bellied  Tarantula's  work  takes  the  form 
of  a  well  surmounted  by  Its  kerb. 

54 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

When  the  soil  is  earthy  and  homogeneous, 
the  architectural  type  is  free  from  obstruc- 
tions and  the  Spider's  dwelling  is  a  cylin- 
drical, tube;  but,  when  the  site  is  pebbly,  the 
shape  is  modified  according  to  the  exigencies 
of  the  digging.  In  the  second  case,  the  lair 
is  often  a  rough,  winding  cave,  at  intervals 
along  whose  inner  wall  stick  blocks  of  stone 
avoided  in  the  process  of  excavation. 
Whether  regular  or  irregular,  the  house 
is  plastered  to  a  certain  depth  with 
a  coat  of  silk,  which  prevents  earthslips 
and  facilitates  scaling  when  a  prompt  exit  is 
required. 

Baglivi,  In  his  unsophisticated  Latin, 
teaches  us  how  to  catch  the  Tarantula.  I  be- 
came his  rusticus  insidiator;  I  waved  a  spike- 
let  at  the  entrance  of  the  burrow  to  imitate 
the  humming  of  a  Bee  and  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  the  Lycosa,  who  rushes  out,  thinking 
that  she  is  capturing  a  prey.  This  method 
did  not  succeed  with  me.  The  Spider,  it  is 
true,  leaves  her  remote  apartments  and  comes 
a  little  way  up  the  vertical  tube  to  enquire 
Into  the  sounds  at  her  door;  but  the  wily 
animal  soon  scents  a  trap;  it  remains  motion- 
less at  mid-height  and,  at  the  least  alarm,  goes 

55 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

down  again  to  the  branch  gallery,  where  It  is 
invisible. 

Leon  Du four's  appears  to  me  a  better 
method  if  it  were  only  practicable  in  the  con- 
ditions wherein  I  find  myself.  To  drive  a 
knife  quickly  into  the  ground,  across  the  bur- 
row, so  as  to  cut  off  the  Tarantula's  retreat 
when  she  is  attracted  by  the  spikelet  and 
standing  on  the  upper  floor,  would  be  a  man- 
CEuvre  certain  of  success,  if  the  soil  were 
favourable.  Unfortunately,  this  is  not  so  In 
my  case :  you  might  as  well  try  to  dig  a  knife 
Into  a  block  of  tufa. 

Other  stratagems  become  necessary.  Here 
are  two  which  were  successful:  I  recommend 
them  to  future  Tarantula-hunters.  I  insert 
Into  the  burrow,  as  far  down  as  I  can,  a  stalk 
with  a  fleshy  spikelet,  which  the  Spider  can 
bite  Into.  I  move  and  turn  and  twist  my 
bait.  The  Tarantula,  when  touched  by  the  in- 
truding body,  contemplates  self-defence  and 
bites  the  spikelet.  A  slight  resistance  informs 
my  fingers  that  the  animal  has  fallen  into  the 
trap  and  seized  the  tip  of  the  stalk  In  Its 
fangs.  I  draw  It  to  me,  slowly,  carefully; 
the  Spider  hauls  from  below,  planting  her 
legs  against  the  wall.  It  comes.  It  rises.  I 
56 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

hide  as  best  I  may,  when  the  Spider  enters 
the  perpendicular  tunnel :  if  she  saw  me,  she 
would  let  go  the  bait  and  slip  down  again. 
I  thus  bring  her,  by  degrees,  to  the  orifice. 
This  is  the  difficult  moment.  If  I  continue 
the  gentle  movement,  the  Spider,  feeling  her- 
self dragged  out  of  her  home,  would  at  once 
run  back  indoors.  It  is  impossible  to  get  the 
suspicious  animal  out  by  this  means.  There- 
fore, when  it  appears  at  the  level  of  the 
ground,  I  give  a  sudden  pull.  Surprised  by 
this  foul  play,  the  Tarantula  has  no  time  to 
release  her  hold;  gripping  the  spikelet,  she  is 
thrown  some  inches  away  from  the  burrow. 
Her  capture  now  becomes  an  easy  matter. 
Outside  her  own  house,  the  Lycosa  is  timid, 
as  though  scared,  and  hardly  capable  of  run- 
ning away.  To  push  her  with  a  straw  into  a 
paper  bag  is  the  affair  of  a  second. 

It  requires  some  patience  to  bring  the 
Tarantula  who  has  bitten  into  the  insidious 
spikelet  to  the  entrance  of  the  burrow.  The 
following  method  is  quicker :  I  procure  a  sup- 
ply of  live  Bumble-bees.  I  put  one  into  a 
little  bottle  with  a  mouth  just  wide  enough  to 
cover  the  opening  of  the  burrow;  and  I  turn 
the  apparatus  thus  baited  over  the  said  open- 
57 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Ing.  The  powerful  Bee  at  first  flutters  and 
hums  about  her  glass  prison;  then,  perceiv- 
ing a  burrow  similar  to  that  of  her  family, 
she  enters  it  without  much  hesitation.  She  is 
extremely  ill-advised :  while  she  goes  down, 
the  Spider  comes  up;  and  the  meeting  takes 
place  in  the  perpendicular  passage.  For 
a  few  moments,  the  ear  perceives  a  sort 
of  death-song:  it  is  the  humming  of  the 
Bumble-bee,  protesting  against  the  reception 
given  her.  This  is  followed  by  a  long 
silence.  Then  I  remove  the  bottle  and  dip  a 
long-jawed  forceps  into  the  pit.  I  withdraw 
the  Bumble-bee,  motionless,  dead,  with  hang- 
ing proboscis.  A  terrible  tragedy  must  have 
happened.  The  Spider  follows,  refusing  to 
let  go  so  rich  a  booty.  Game  and  huntress 
are  brought  to  the  orifice.  Sometimes,  mis- 
trustful, the  Lycosa  goes  in  again;  but  we 
have  only  to  leave  the  Bumble-bee  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  or  even  a  few  inches 
away,  to  see  her  reappear,  issue  from  her 
fortress  and  daringly  recapture  her  prey. 
This  is  the  moment :  the  house  is  closed  with 
the  finger,  or  a  pebble;  and,  as  Baglivi  says, 
^captatur  tamen  ista  a  rustico  insidiatore'  to 
which  I  will  add,  ''adjuvante  Bombo.'^ 

^'Thanks  to  the  Bumble-bee.' 
S8 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

The  object  of  these  hunting  methods  was 
not  exactly  to  obtain  Tarantulae;  I  had  not 
the  least  wish  to  rear  the  Spider  in  a  bottle. 
I  was  interested  in  a  different  matter.  Here, 
thought  I,  is  an  ardent  huntress,  living  solely 
by  her  trade.  She  does  not  prepare  preserved 
foodstuffs  for  her  offspring;-^  she  herself  feeds 
on  the  prey  which  she  catches.  She  is  not  a 
'paralyzer'^  who  cleverly  spares  her  quarry  so 
as  to  leave  it  a  glimmer  of  life  and  keep  it 
fresh  for  weeks  at  a  time;  she  is  a  killer, 
who  makes  a  meal  off  her  capture  on  the 
spot.  With  her,  there  is  no  methodical 
vivisection,  which  destroys  movement  with- 
out entirely  destroying  life,  but  absolute 
death,  as  sudden  as  possible,  which  protects 
the  assailant  from  the  counter-attacks  of  the 
assailed. 

Her  game,  moreover,  is  essentially  bulky 
and  not  always  of  the  most  peaceful  char- 
acter. This  Diana,  ambushed  in  her  tower, 
needs  a  prey  worthy  of  her  prowess.  The 
big  Grasshopper,  with  the  powerful  jaws;  the 
irascible  Wasp;  the  Bee,  the  Bumble-bee  and 
other  wearers  of  poisoned  daggers  must  fall 

^Like  the  Dung-beetles. — Translator's  Note. 
*Like  the  Solitary  Wasps. — Translator's  Note. 

59 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

into  the  ambuscade  from  time  to  time.  The 
duel  is  nearly  equal  in  point  of  weapons.  To 
the  venomous  fangs  of  the  Lycosa  the  Wasp 
opposes  her  venomous  stiletto.  Which  of 
the  two  bandits  shall  have  the  best  of  it? 
The  struggle  is  a  hand-to-hand  one.  The 
Tarantula  has  no  secondary  means  of  de- 
fence, no  cord  to  bind  her  victim,  no  trap  to 
subdue  her.  When  the  Epeira,  or  Garden 
Spider,  sees  an  insect  entangled  in  her  great 
upright  web,  she  hastens  up  and  covers  the 
captive  with  corded  meshes  and  silk  ribbons 
by  the  armful,  making  all  resistance  impossi- 
ble. When  the  prey  is  solidly  bound,  a  prick 
is  carefully  administered  with  the  poison- 
fangs;  then  the  Spider  retires,  waiting  for  the 
death-throes  to  calm  down,  after  which  the 
huntress  comes  back  to  the  game.  In  these 
conditions,  there  is  no  serious  danger. 

In  the  case  of  the  Lycosa,  the  job  is 
riskier.  She  has  naught  to  serve  her  but  her 
courage  and  her  fangs  and  is  obliged  to  leap 
upon  the  formidable  prey,  to  master  it  by 
her  dexterity,  to  annihilate  it,  in  a  measure, 
by  her  swift-slaying  talent. 

Annihilate  is  the  word:  the  Bumble-bees 
whom  I  draw  from  the  fatal  hole  are  a  suf- 
60 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

ficlent  proof.  As  soon  as  that  shrill  buzzing, 
which  I  called  the  death-song,  ceases,  in  vain 
I  hasten  to  insert  my  forceps :  I  always  bring 
out  the  insect  dead,  with  slack  proboscis  and 
limp  legs.  Scarce  a  few  quivers  of  those  legs 
tell  me  that  it  is  a  quite  recent  corpse.  The 
Bumble-bee's  death  is  instantaneous.  Each 
time  that  I  take  a  fresh  victim  from  the  ter- 
rible slaughter-house,  my  surprise  is  renewed 
at  the  sight  of  its  sudden  immobility. 

Nevertheless,  both  animals  have  very 
nearly  the  same  strength;  for  I  choose  my 
Bumble-bees  from  among  the  largest  (Bom- 
bus  hortoriim  and  B.  terrestris) .  Their 
weapons  are  almost  equal:  the  Bee's  dart 
can  bear  comparison  with  the  Spider's  fangs; 
the  sting  of  the  first  seems  to  me  as  formid- 
able as  the  bite  of  the  second.  How  comes 
it  that  the  Tarantula  always  has  the  upper 
hand  and  this  moreover  in  a  very  short  con- 
flict, whence  she  emerges  unscathed?  There 
must  certainly  be  some  cunning  strategy  on 
her  part.  Subtle  though  her  poison  may  be, 
I  cannot  believe  that  its  mere  injection,  at 
any  point  whatever  of  the  victim,  is  enough 
to  produce  so  prompt  a  catastrophe.  The 
ill-famed  rattle-snake  does  not  kill  so  quickly, 
6i 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

takes  hours  to  achieve  that  for  which  the 
Tarantula  does  not  require  a  second.  We 
must,  therefore,  look  for  an  explanation  of 
this  sudden  death  to  the  vital  importance  of 
the  point  attacked  by  the  Spider,  rather  than 
to  the  virulence  of  the  poison. 

What  is  this  point?  It  is  impossible  to 
recognize  it  on  the  Bumble-bees.  They  enter 
the  burrow;  and  the  murder  is  committed  far 
from  sight.  Nor  does  the  lens  discover  any 
wound  upon  the  corpse,  so  delicate  are  the 
weapons  that  produce  it.  One  would  have 
to  see  the  two  adversaries  engage  in  a  direct 
contest.  I  have  often  tried  to  place  a  Taran- 
tula and  a  Bumble-bee  face  to  face  in  the 
same  bottle.  The  two  animals  mutually 
flee  each  other,  each  being  as  much  upset  as 
the  other  at  its  captivity.  I  have  kept  them 
together  for  twenty-four  hours,  without  ag- 
gressive display  on  either  side.  Thinking 
more  of  their  prison  than  of  attacking  each 
other,  they  temporize,  as  though  Indifferent. 
The  experiment  has  always  been  fruitless.  I 
have  succeeded  with  Bees  and  Wasps,  but  the 
murder  has  been  committed  at  night  and  has 
taught  me  nothing.  I  would  find  both 
Insects,  next  morning,  reduced  to  a  jelly  un- 
62 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

der  the  Spider's  mandibles.  A  weak  prey  Is 
a  mouthful  which  the  Spider  reserves  for  the 
calm  of  the  night.  A  prey  capable  of  resist- 
ance Is  not  attacked  In  captivity.  The  pris- 
oner's anxiety  cools  the  hunter's  ardour. 

The  arena  of  a  large  bottle  enables  each 
athlete  to  keep  out  of  the  other's  way,  re- 
spected by  her  adversary,  who  is  respected  In 
her  turn.  Let  us  reduce  the  lists,  diminish 
the  enclosure.  I  put  Bumble-bee  and  Taran- 
tula Into  a  test-tube  that  has  only  room  for 
one  at  the  bottom.  A  lively  brawl  ensues, 
without  serious  results.  If  the  Bumble-bee  be 
underneath,  she  lies  down  on  her  back  and 
with  her  legs  wards  off  the  other  as  much 
as  she  can.  I  do  not  see  her  draw  her 
sting.  The  Spider,  meanwhile,  embracing  the 
whole  circumference  of  the  enclosure  with 
her  long  legs,  hoists  herself  a  little  upon  the 
slippery  surface  and  removes  herself  as  far 
as  possible  from  her  adversary.  There, 
motionless,  she  awaits  events,  which  are  soon 
disturbed  by  the  fussy  Bumble-bee.  Should 
the  latter  occupy  the  upper  position,  the 
Tarantula  protects  herself  by  drawing  up  her 
legs,  which  keep  the  enemy  at  a  distance.  In 
short,  save  for  sharp  scuffles  when  the  two 
63 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

champions  are  in  touch,  nothing  happens  that 
deserves  attention.  There  is  no  duel  to  the 
death  in  the  narrow  arena  of  the  test-tube, 
any  more  than  in  the  wider  lists  afforded  by 
the  bottle.  Utterly  timid  once  she  is  away 
from  home,  the  Spider  obstinately  refuses  the 
battle;  nor  will  the  Bumble-bee,  giddy  though 
she  be,  think  of  striking  the  first  blow.  I 
abandon  experiments  in  my  study. 

We  must  go  direct  to  the  spot  and  force 
the  duel  upon  the  Tarantula,  who  is  full  of 
pluck  in  her  own  stronghold.  Only,  instead 
of  the  Bumble-bee,  who  enters  the  burrow 
and  conceals  her  death  from  our  eyes,  it  is 
necessary  to  substitute  another  adversary,  less 
inclined  to  penetrate  underground.  There 
abounds  in  the  garden,  at  this  mom.ent,  on 
the  flowers  of  the  common  clary,  one  of  the 
largest  and  most  powerful  Bees  that  haunt  my 
district,  the  Carpenter-bee  (Xylocopa  viola- 
cea) ,  clad  in  black  velvet,  with  wings  of  pur- 
ple gauze.  Her  size,  which  is  nearly  an  inch, 
exceeds  that  of  the  Bumble-bee.  Her  sting  is 
excruciating  and  produces  a  swelling  that  long 
continues  painful.  I  have  very  exact  memo- 
ries on  this  subject,  memories  that  have  cost 
me  dear.  Here  indeed  is  an  antagonist  worthy 
64 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

of  the  Tarantula,  if  I  succeed  in  inducing  the 
Spider  to  accept  her.  I  place  a  certain  num- 
ber, one  by  one,  in  bottles  small  in  capacity, 
but  having  a  wide  neck  capable  of  surround- 
ing the  entrance  to  the  burrow. 

As  the  prey  which  I  am  about  to  offer  is 
capable  of  overawing  the  huntress,  I  select 
from  among  the  Tarantulae  the  lustiest,  the 
boldest,  those  most  stimulated  by  hunger. 
The  spikeleted  stalk  is  pushed  into  the  bur- 
row. When  the  Spider  hastens  up  at  once, 
when  she  is  of  a  good  size,  when  she  climbs 
boldly  to  the  aperture  of  her  dwelling,  she 
is  admitted  to  the  tourney;  otherwise,  she  is 
refused.  The  bottle,  baited  with  a  Carpen- 
ter-bee, is  placed  upside  down  over  the 
door  of  one  of  the  elect.  The  Bee  buzzes 
gravely  in  her  glass  bell ;  the  huntress  mounts 
from  the  recesses  of  the  cave;  she  is  on  the 
threshold,  but  inside;  she  looks;  she  waits. 
I  also  wait.  The  quarters,  the  half-hours 
pass :  nothing.  The  Spider  goes  down  again : 
she  has  probably  judged  the  attempt  too  dan- 
gerous. I  move  to  a  second,  a  third,  a  fourth 
burrow:  still  nothing;  the  huntress  refuses  to 
leave  her  lair. 

Fortune  at  last  smiles  upon  my  patience, 
65 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

which  has  been  heavily  tried  by  all  these 
prudent  retreats  and  particularly  by  the  fierce 
heat  of  the  dog-days.  A  Spider  suddenly 
rushes  from  her  hole :  she  has  been  rendered 
warlike,  doubtless,  by  prolonged  abstinence. 
The  tragedy  that  happens  under  the  cover  of 
the  bottle  lasts  for  but  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 
It  is  over:  the  sturdy  Carpenter-bee  is  dead. 
Where  did  the  murderess  strike  her.  That  is 
easily  ascertained:  the  Tarantula  has  not  let 
go;  and  her  fangs  are  planted  in  the  nape  of 
the  neck.  The  assassin  has  the  knowledge 
which  I  suspected :  she  has  made  for  the  essen- 
tially vital  centre,  she  has  stung  the  insect's 
cervical  ganglia  with  her  poison-fangs.  In 
short,  she  has  bitten  the  only  point  a  lesion  in 
which  produces  sudden  death.  I  was  delighted 
with  this  murderous  skill,  which  made  amends 
for  the  blistering  which  my  skin  received  in 
the  sun. 

Once  is  not  custom:  one  swallow  does  not 
make  a  summer.  Is  what  I  have  just  seen 
due  to  accident  or  to  premeditation?  I  turn 
to  other  Lycosse.  Many,  a  deal  too  many 
for  my  patience,  stubbornly  refuse  to  dart 
from  their  haunts  in  order  to  attack  the 
Carpenter-bee.  The  formidable  quarry  is  too 
66 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

much  for  their  daring.  Shall  not  hunger, 
which  brings  the  wolf  from  the  wood,  also 
bring  the  Tarantula  out  of  her  hole  ?  Two, 
apparently  more  famished  than  the  rest,  do 
at  last  pounce  upon  the  Bee  and  repeat  the 
scene  of  murder  before  my  eyes.  The  prey, 
again  bitten  in  the  neck,  exclusively  in  the 
neck,  dies  on  the  instant.  Three  murders, 
perpetrated  in  my  presence  under  identical 
conditions,  represent  the  fruits  of  my  experi- 
ment pursued,  on  two  occasions,  from  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning  until  twelve  midday. 

I  had  seen  enough.  The  quick  insect- 
killer  had  taught  me  her  trade  as  had  the 
paralyzer^  before  her:  she  had  shown  me 
that  she  is  thoroughly  versed  in  the  art  of 
the  butcher  of  the  Pampas.^  The  Tarantula 
is  an  accomplished  desnucador.  It  remained 
to  me  to  confirm  the  open-air  experiment  with 
experiments  in  the  privacy  of  my  study.  I 
therefore  got  together  a  menagerie  of  these 
poisonous  Spiders,  so  as  to  judge  of  the  viru- 

^Such  as  the  Hairy  Ammophila,  the  Cerceris  and  the 
Languedocian  Sphex,  Digger-wasps  described  in  other 
of  the  author's  essays. — Translator's  Note. 

^The  desnucador,  the  Argentine  slaughterman,  whose 
methods  of  slaying  cattle  are  detailed  in  the  author's 
essay  entitled,  The  Theory  of  Instinct. — Translator^ 
Note. 

67 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

lence  of  their  venom  and  its  effect  according  to 
the  part  of  the  body  injured  by  the  fangs.  A 
dozen  bottles  and  test-tubes  received  the 
prisoners,  whom  I  captured  by  the  methods 
known  to  the  reader.  To  one  inclined  to 
scream  at  the  sight  of  a  Spider,  my  study, 
filled  with  odious  Lycos^,  would  have  pre- 
sented a  very  uncanny  appearance. 

Though  the  Tarantula  scorns  or  rather 
fears  to  attack  an  adversary  placed  in  her 
presence  in  a  bottle,  she  scarcely  hesitates 
to  bite  what  is  thrust  beneath  her  fangs. 
I  take  her  by  the  thorax  with  my  for- 
ceps and  present  to  her  mouth  the  animal 
which  I  wish  stung.  Forthwith,  if  the  Spider 
be  not  already  tired  by  experiments,  the 
fangs  are  raised  and  inserted.  I  first  tried 
the  effects  of  the  bite  upon  the  Carpenter- 
bee.  When  struck  in  the  neck,  the  Bee  suc- 
cumbs at  once.  It  was  the  lightning  death 
which  I  witnessed  on  the  threshold  of  the 
burrows.  When  struck  in  the  abdomen  and 
then  placed  in  a  large  bottle  that  leaves  its 
movements  free,  the  insect  seems,  at  first, 
to  have  suffered  no  serious  injury.  It  flut- 
ters about  and  buzzes.  But  half  an  hour  has 
not  elapsed  before  death  is  imminent.  TJh.e 
68 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

insect  lies  motionless  upon  Its  back  or  side. 
At  most,  a  few  movements  of  the  legs,  a 
slight  pulsation  of  the  belly,  continuing  till 
the  morrow,  proclaim  that  life  has  not  yet 
entirely  departed.  Then  everything  ceases: 
the  Carpenter-bee  Is  a  corpse. 

The  Importance  of  this  experiment  compels 
our  attention.  When  stung  In  the  neck,  the 
powerful  Bee  dies  on  the  spot ;  and  the  Spider 
has  not  to  fear  the  dangers  of  a  desperate 
struggle.  Stung  elsewhere.  In  the  abdomen, 
the  Insect  Is  capable,  for  nearly  half  an  hour, 
of  making  use  of  Its  dart.  Its  mandibles,  Its 
legs ;  and  woe  to  the  Lycosa  whom  the  stiletto 
reaches.  I  have  seen  some  who,  stabbed  In 
the  mouth  while  biting  close  to  the  sting,  died 
of  the  wound  within  the  twenty-four  hours. 
That  dangerous  prey,  therefore,  requires  In- 
stantaneous death,  produced  by  the  Injury  to 
the  nerve-centres  of  the  neck;  otherwise,  the 
hunter's  life  would  often  be  In  jeopardy. 

The  Grasshopper  order  supplied  me  with 
a  second  series  of  victims :  green  Grasshop- 
pers as  long  as  one's  finger,  large-headed 
Locusts,  Ephlpplgerae.^  The  same  result  fol- 
lows when  these  are  bitten  In  the  neck :  llght- 
^A  family  of  Grasshoppers. — Translator's  Note. 
69 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

ning  death.  When  injured  elsewhere,  not- 
ably in  the  abdomen,  the  subject  of  the 
experiment  resists  for  some  time.  I  have  seen 
a  Grasshopper,  bitten  in  the  belly,  cling  firmly 
for  fifteen  hours  to  the  smooth,  upright  wall 
of  the  glass  bell  that  constituted  his  prison. 
At  last,  he  dropped  off  and  died.  Where  the 
Bee,  that  delicate  organism,  succumbs  in  less 
than  half  an  hour,  the  Grasshopper,  coarse 
ruminant  that  he  is,  resists  for  a  whole  day. 
Put  aside  these  differences,  caused  by  unequal 
degrees  of  organic  sensitiveness,  and  we  sum 
up  as  follows :  when  bitten  by  the  Tarantula 
in  the  neck,  an  insect,  chosen  from  among  the 
largest,  dies  on  the  spot;  when  bitten  else- 
where, it  perishes  also,  but  after  a  lapse  of 
time  which  varies  considerably  in  the  different 
entomological  orders. 

This  explains  the  long  hesitation  of  the 
Tarantula,  so  wearisome  to  the  experimenter 
when  he  presents  to  her,  at  the  entrance  to  the 
burrow,  a  rich,  but  dangerous  prey.  The  ma- 
jority refuse  to  fling  themselves  upon  the  Car- 
penter-bee. The  fact  is  that  a  quarry  of  this 
kind  cannot  be  seized  recklessly:  the  huntress 
who  missed  her  stroke  by  biting  at  random 
would  do  so  at  the  risk  of  her  life.     The 

70 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

nape  of  the  neck  alone  possesses  the  desired 
vulnerability.  The  adversary  must  be  nipped 
there  and  no  elsewhere.  Not  to  floor  her  at 
once  would  mean  to  irritate  her  and  make 
her  more  dangerous  than  ever.  The  Spider 
is  well  aware  of  this.  In  the  safe  shelter 
of  her  threshold,  therefore,  prepared  to  beat 
a  quick  retreat  if  necessary,  she  watches  for 
the  favourable  moment;  she  waits  for 
the  big  Bee  to  face  her,  when  the  neck 
is  easily  grabbed.  If  this  condition  of 
success  offer,  she  leaps  out  and  acts;  if 
not,  weary  of  the  violent  evolutions  of 
the  quarry,  she  retires  indors.  And  that, 
no  doubt,  is  why  it  took  me  two  sit- 
tings of  four  hours  apiece  to  witness  three 
assassinations. 

Formerly,  instructed  by  the  paralysing 
Wasps,  I  had  myself  tried  to  produce  paral- 
ysis by  injecting  a  drop  of  ammonia  into 
the  thorax  of  those  insects,  such  as  Wee- 
vils, Buprestes^  and  Dung-beetles,  whose 
compact  nervous  system  assists  this  physio- 
logical operation.  I  showed  myself  a  ready 
pupil  to  my  masters'  teaching  and  used  to 
paralyse  a  Buprestis  or  a  Weevil  almost  as 
^A  genus  of  Beetles. — Translator's  Note. 
7i 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

well  as  a  Cerceris^  could  have  done.  Why 
should  I  not  to-day  imitate  that  expert 
butcher,  the  Tarantula  ?  With  the  point  of  a 
fine  needle,  I  inject  a  tiny  drop  of  ammonia 
at  the  base  of  the  skull  of  a  Carpenter-bee  or 
a  Grasshopper.  The  insect  succumbs  then  and 
there,  without  any  other  movement  than  wild 
convulsions.  When  attacked  by  the  acrid 
fluid,  the  cervical  ganglia  cease  to  do  their 
work;  and  death  ensues.  Nevertheless,  this 
death  is  not  immediate;  the  throes  last  for 
some  time.  The  experiment  is  not  wholly 
satisfactory  as  regards  suddenness.  Why? 
Because  the  liquid  which  I  employ,  ammonia, 
cannot  be  compared,  for  deadly  efficacy,  with 
the  Lycosa's  poison,  a  pretty  formidable 
poison,  as  we  shall  see. 

I  make  a  Tarantula  bite  the  leg  of  a 
young,  well-fledged  Sparrow,  ready  to  leave 
the  nest.  A  drop  of  blood  flows;  the 
wounded  spot  is  surrounded  by  a  reddish 
circle,  changing  to  purple.  The  bird  almost 
immediately  loses  the  use  of  its  leg,  which 
drags,  with  the  toes  doubled  in;  it  hops  upon 
the  other.  Apart  from  this,  the  patient  does 
not  seem  to  trouble  much  about  his  hurt;  his 
'A  species  of  Digger-wasp. — Translator's  Note, 
72 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

appetite  is  good.  My  daughters  feed  him 
on  Flies,  bread-crumb,  apricot-pulp.  He  is 
sure  to  get  well,  he  will  recover  his  strength; 
the  poor  victim  of  the  curiosity  of  science 
will  be  restored  to  liberty.  This  is  the  wish, 
the  intention  of  us  all.  Twelve  hours  later, 
the  hope  of  a  cure  increases;  the  invalid  takes 
nourishment  readily;  he  clamours  for  it,  if 
we  keep  him  waiting.  But  the  leg  still  drags. 
I  set  this  down  to  a  temporary  paralysis 
which  will  soon  disappear.  Two  days  after, 
he  refuses  his  food.  Wrapping  himself  in 
his  stoicism  and  his  rumpled  feathers,  the 
Sparrow  hunches  into  a  ball,  now  motionless, 
now  twitching.  My  girls  take  him  in  the 
hollow  of  their  hands  and  warm  him  with 
their  breath.  The  spasms  become  more  fre- 
quent. A  gasp  proclaims  that  all  is  over.  The 
bird  is  dead. 

There  was  a  certain  coolness  among  us  at 
the  evening-meal,  I  read  mute  reproaches, 
because  of  my  experiment,  in  the  eyes  of  my 
home-circle;  I  read  an  unspoken  accusation  of 
cruelty  all  around  me.  The  death  of  the  un- 
fortunate Sparrow  had  saddened  the  whole 
family.  I  myself  was  not  without  some  re- 
morse of  conscience :  the  poor  result  achieved 

7Z 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

seemed  to  me  too  dearly  bought.  I  am  not 
made  of  the  stuff  of  those  who,  without  turn- 
ing a  hair,  rip  up  Live  dogs  to  find  out  noth- 
ing in  particular. 

Neverthelss,  I  had  the  courage  to  start 
afresh,  this  time  on  a  Mole  caught  ravaging 
a  bed  of  lettuces.  There  was  a  danger  lest 
my  captive,  with  his  famished  stomach, 
should  leave  things  in  doubt,  if  we  had  to 
keep  him  for  a  few  days.  He  might  die 
not  of  his  wound,  but  of  inanition,  if  I  did 
not  succeed  in  giving  him  suitable  food, 
fairly  plentiful  and  dispensed  at  fairly  fre- 
quent intervals.  In  that  case,  I  ran  a  risk 
of  ascribing  to  the  poison  what  might  well 
be  the  result  of  starvation.  I  must  therefore 
begin  by  finding  out  if  it  was  possible  for  me 
to  keep  the  Mole  alive  in  captivity.  The  ani- 
mal was  put  into  a  large  receptacle  from 
which  it  could  not  get  out  and  fed  on  a  varied 
diet  of  insects — Beetles,  Grasshoppers,  es- 
pecially Cicadas^ — which  it  crunched  up  with 
an  excellent  appetite.  Twenty-four  hours  of 
this  regimen  convinced  me  that  the  Mole  was 

^The  Cicada  is  the  Cigale,  an  insect  akin  to  the  Grass- 
hopper and  found  more  particularly  in  the  South  of 
France. — Translator's  Note. 

74 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

making  the  best  of  the  bill  of  fare  and  taking 
kindly  to  his  captivity. 

I  made  the  Tarantula  bite  him  at  the  tip 
of  the  snout.  When  replaced  in  his  cage,  the 
Mole  keeps  on  scratching  his  nose  with  his 
broad  paws.  The  thing  seems  to  burn,  to 
itch.  Henceforth,  less  and  less  of  the  pro- 
vision of  Cicadae  is  consumed;  on  the  evening 
of  the  following  day,  it  is  refused  altogether. 
About  thirty-six  hours  after  being  bitten,  the 
Mole  dies  during  the  night  and  certainly  not 
from  inanition,  for  there  were  still  half  a 
dozen  live  Cicadse  in  the  receptacle,  as  well 
as  a  few  Beetles. 

The  bite  of  the  Black-bellied  Tarantula 
Is  therefore  dangerous  to  other  animals  than 
insects:  it  is  fatal  to  the  Sparrow,  it  is  fatal 
to  the  Mole.  Up  to  what  point  are  we  to 
generalize?  I  do  not  know,  because  my  en- 
quiries extended  no  further.  Nevertheless, 
judging  from  the  little  that  I  saw,  it  appeari. 
to  me  that  the  bite  of  this  Spider  is  not  an 
accident  which  man  can  afford  to  treat  lightly. 
This  is  all  that  I  have  to  say  to  the  doctors. 

To  the  philosophical  entomologists  I  have 
something  else  to  say:  I  have  to  call  their 
attention  to  the  consummate  knowledge  of 
75 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  insect-killers,  which  vies  with  that  of  the 
paralyzers.  I  speak  of  insect-killers  in  the 
plural,  for  the  Tarantula  must  share  her 
deadly  art  with  a  host  of  other  Spiders, 
especially  with  those  who  hunt  without  nets. 
These  insect-killers,  who  live  on  their  prey, 
strike  the  game  dead  instantaneously  by 
stinging  the  nerve-centres  of  the  neck;  the 
paralyzers,  on  the  other  hand,  who  wish  to 
keep  the  food  fresh  for  their  larvae,  destroy 
the  power  of  movement  by  stinging  the  game 
in  the  other  nerve-centres.  Both  of  them  at- 
tack the  nervous  chain,  but  they  select  the 
point  according  to  the  object  to  be  attained. 
If  death  be  desired,  sudden  death,  free  from 
danger  to  the  huntress,  the  insect  is  attacked 
in  the  neck;  if  mere  paralysis  be  required, 
the  neck  is  respected  and  the  lower  segments 
— sometimes  one  alone,  sometimes  three, 
sometimes  all  or  nearly  all,  according  to  the 
special  organization  of  the  victim — receive 
the  dagger-thrust. 

Even  the  paralyzers,  at  least  some  of  them, 
are  acquainted  with  the  immense  vital  im- 
portance of  the  nerve-centres  of  the  neck. 
We  have  seen  the  Hairy  Ammophila  munch- 
ing the  caterpillar's  brain,  the  Languedocian 
76 


The  Black-Bellied  Tarantula 

Sphex  munching  the  brain  of  the  Ephip- 
pigera,  with  the  object  of  inducing  a  pass- 
ing torpor.  But  they  simply  squeeze  the 
brain,  and  do  even  this  with  a  wise  dis- 
cretion; they  are  careful  not  to  drive  their 
sting  into  this  fundamental  centre  of  life; 
not  one  of  them  ever  thinks  of  doing  so, 
for  the  result  would  be  a  corpse  which  the 
larva  would  despise.  The  Spider,  on  the 
other  hand,  inserts  her  double  dirk  there  and 
there  alone;  any  elsewhere  it  would  inflict  a 
wound  likely  to  increase  resistance  through 
irritation.  She  wants  a  venison  for  consump- 
tion without  delay  and  brutally  thrusts  her 
fangs  into  the  spot  which  the  others  so  con- 
scientiously respect. 

If  the  instinct  of  these  scientific  murderers 
is  not,  in  both  cases,  an  inborn  predisposi- 
tion, inseparable  from  the  animal,  but  an 
acquired  habit,  then  I  rack  my  brain  in  vain 
to  understand  how  that  habit  can  have  been 
acquired.  Shroud  these  facts  In  theoretic 
mists  as  much  as  you  will,  you  shall  never 
succeed  in  veiling  the  glaring  evidence  which 
they  afford  of  a  pre-established  order  of 
things. 


V3 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  BANDED  EPEIRK 

IN  the  inclement  season  of  the  year,  when 
the  insect  has  nothing  to  do  and  retires 
to  winter  quarters,  the  observer  profits  by  the 
mildness  of  the  sunny  nooks  and  grubs  in  the 
sand,  lifts  the  stones,  searches  the  brushwood; 
and  often  he  is  stirred  with  a  pleasurable  ex- 
citement, when  he  lights  upon  some  ingenious 
work  of  art,  discovered  unawares.  Happy  are 
the  simple  of  heart  whose  ambition  is  satis- 
fied with  such  treasure-trove !  I  wish  them 
all  the  joys  which  it  has  brought  me  and 
which  it  will  continue  to  bring  me,  despite  the 
vexations  of  life,  which  grow  ever  more  bit- 
ter as  the  years  follow  their  swift  downward 
course. 

Should  the  seekers  rummage  among  the 
wild  grasses  in  the  osier-beds  and  copses,  I 
wish  them  the  delight  of  finding  the  wonder- 
ful object  that,  at  this  moment,  lies  before 
my  eyes.  It  is  the  work  of  a  Spider,  the  nest 
78 


The  Banded  Epeira 

of  the  Banded  Epeira  {Epeira  fasciata, 
Latr. ) . 

A  Spider  is  not  an  insect,  according  to  the 
rules  of  classification;  and  as  such  the  Epeira 
seems  out  of  place  here/  A  fig  for  systems ! 
It  is  immaterial  to  the  student  of  instinct 
whether  the  animal  have  eight  legs  instead  of 
six  or  pulmonary  sacs  instead  of  air-tubes. 
Besides,  the  Araneida  belong  to  the  group 
of  segmented  animals,  organized  in  sections 
placed  end  to  end,  a  structure  to  which 
the  terms  'insect'  and  'entomology'  both 
refer. 

Formerly,  to  describe  this  group,  people 
said  'articulate  animals,'  an  expression  which 
possessed  the  drawback  of  not  jarring  on  the 
ear  and  of  being  understood  by  all.  This  is 
out  of  date.  Nowadays,  they  use  the  eupho- 
nious term  'Arthropoda.'  And  to  think  that 
there  are  men  who  question  the  existence  of 
progress!  Infidels!  Say,  'articulate,'  first; 
then  roll  out,  'Arthropoda;'  and  you  shall 
see  whether  zoological  science  is  not  pro- 
gressing ! 

^The  generic  title  of  the  work  from  which  these  es- 
says are  taken  is  Entomological  Memories;  or,  Studies 
Relating  to  the  Instinct  and  Habits  of  Insects. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

79 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

In  bearing  and  colouring,  Epeira  fasciata 
Is  the  handsomest  of  the  Spiders  of  the 
South.  On  her  fat  belly,  a  mighty  silk-ware- 
house nearly  as  large  as  a  hazel-nut,  are 
alternate  yellow,  black  and  silver  sashes,  to 
which  she  owes  her  epithet  of  Banded. 
Around  that  portly  abdomen,  the  eight  long 
legs,  with  their  dark-  and  pale-brown  rings, 
radiate  like  spokes. 

Any  small  prey  suits  her;  and,  as  long  as 
she  can  find  supports  for  her  web,  she  settles 
wherever  the  Locust  hops,  wherever  the 
Fly  hovers,  wherever  the  Dragon-fly  dances 
or  the  Butterfly  flits.  As  a  rule,  because  of 
the  greater  abundance  of  game,  she  spreads 
her  toils  across  some  brooklet,  from  bank 
to  bank,  among  the  rushes.  She  also 
stretches  them,  but  not  assiduously,  in  the 
thickets  of  evergreen  oak,  on  the  slopes  with 
the  scrubby  greenswards,  dear  to  the  Grass- 
hoppers. 

Her  hunting-weapon  is  a  large  upright 
web,  whose  outer  boundary,  which  varies  ac- 
cording to  the  disposition  of  the  ground.  Is 
fastened  to  the  neighbouring  branches  by  a 
number  of  moorings.  The  structure  is  that 
adopted  by  the  other  weaving  Spiders. 
80 


The  Banded  Epeira 

Straight  threads  radiate  at  equal  intervals 
from  a  central  point.  Over  this  framework 
runs  a  continuous  spiral  thread,  forming 
chords,  or  crossbars,  from  the  centre  to  the 
circumference.  It  is  magnificently  large  and 
magnificently  symmetrical. 

In  the  lower  part  of  the  web,  starting  from 
the  centre,  a  wide  opaque  ribbon  descends 
zigzag-wise  across  the  radii.  This  is  the 
Epeira's  Trade-mark,  the  flourish  of  an  artist 
initialing  his  creation.  ''Fecit  So-and-So,'  she 
seems  to  say,  when  giving  the  last  throw  of 
the  shuttle  to  her  handiwork. 

That  the  Spider  feels  satisfied  when,  after 
passing  and  repassing  from  spoke  to  spoke, 
she  finishes  her  spiral,  is  beyond  a  doubt:  the 
work  achieved  ensures  her  food  for  a  few 
days  to  come.  But,  in  this  particular  case,  the 
vanity  of  the  spinstress  has  naught  to  say  to 
the  matter:  the  strong  silk  zigzag  is  added  to 
impart  greater  firmness  to  the  web. 

Increased  resistance  is  not  superfluous,  for 
the  net  is  sometimes  exposed  to  severe  tests. 
The  Epeira  cannot  pick  and  choose  her 
prizes.  Seated  motionless  in  the  centre  of 
her  web,  her  eight  legs  widespread  to  feel 
the  shaking  of  the  network  in  any  direction; 
8i 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

she  waits  for  what  luck  will  bring  her:  now 
some  giddy  weakling  unable  to  control  its 
flight,  anon  some  powerful  prey  rushing  head- 
long with  a  reckless  bound. 

The  Locust  in  particular,  the  fiery  Locust, 
who  releases  the  spring  of  his  long  shanks 
at  random,  often  falls  into  the  trap.  One 
imagines  that  his  strength  ought  to  frighten 
the  Spider;  the  kick  of  his  spurred  levers 
should  enable  him  to  make  a  hole,  then  and 
there,  in  the  web  and  to  get  away.  But  not 
at  all.  If  he  does  not  free  himself  at  the 
first  effort,  the  Locust  is  lost. 

Turning  her  back  on  the  game,  the  Epeira 
works  all  her  spinnerets,  pierced  like  the  rose 
of  a  watering-pot,  at  one  and  the  same  time. 
The  silky  spray  is  gathered  by  the  hind-legs, 
which  are  longer  than  the  others  and  open 
into  a  wide  arc  to  allow  the  stream  to  spread. 
Thanks  to  this  artifice,  the  Epeira  this  time 
obtains  not  a  thread,  but  an  iridescent  sheet, 
a  sort  of  clouded  fan  wherein  the  component 
threads  are  kept  almost  separate.  The  two 
hind-legs  fling  this  shroud  gradually,  by 
rapid  alternate  armfuls,  while,  at  the  same 
time,  they  turn  the  prey  over  and  over,  swath- 
ing it  completely. 

82 


The  Banded  Epeira 

The  ancient  retiarius,  when  pitted  against 
a  powerful  wild  beast,  appeared  in  the  arena 
with  a  rope-net  folded  over  his  left  shoulder. 
The  animal  made  its  spring.  The  man,  with 
a  sudden  movement  of  his  right  arm,  cast  the 
net  after  the  manner  of  the  fishermen;  he 
covered  the  beast  and  tangled  it  in  the 
meshes.  A  thrust  of  the  trident  gave  the 
quietus  to  the  vanquished  foe. 

The  Epeira  acts  in  like  fashion,  with  this 
advantage,  that  she  is  able  to  renew  her  arm- 
ful of  fetters.  Should  the  first  not  suffice,  a 
second  instantly  follows  and  another  and  yet 
another,  until  the  reserv-es  of  silk  become  ex- 
hausted. 

When  all  movement  ceases  under  the 
snowy  winding-sheet,  the  Spider  goes  up  to 
her  bound  prisoner.  She  has  a  better  weapon 
than  the  hestiarius'  trident:  she  has  her 
poison-fangs.  She  gnaws  at  the  Locust, 
without  undue  persistence,  and  then  with- 
draws, leaving  the  torpid  patient  to  pine 
away. 

Soon  she  comes  back  to  her  motionless 
head  of  game :  she  sucks  It,  drains  it,  re- 
peatedly changing  her  point  of  attack.  At 
last,  the  clean-bled  remains  are  flung  out  of 
83 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  net  and  the  Spider  returns  to  her  am- 
bush in  the  centre  of  the  web. 

What  the  Epeira  sucks  is  not  a  corpse,  but 
a  numbed  body.  If  I  remove  the  Locust  im- 
mediately after  he  has  been  bitten  and 
release  him  from  the  silken  sheath,  the 
patient  recovers  his  strength  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that  he  seems,  at  first,  to  have  suffered 
no  injury.  The  Spider,  therefore,  does  not 
kill  her  capture  before  sucking  its  juices;  she 
is  content  to  deprive  it  of  the  power  of  mo- 
tion by  producing  a  state  of  torpor.  Perhaps 
this  kindlier  bite  gives  her  greater  facility  in 
working  her  pump.  The  humours,  if  stag- 
nant in  a  corpse,  would  not  respond  so  readily 
to  the  action  of  the  sucker;  they  are  more 
easily  extracted  from  a  live  body,  in  which 
they  move  about. 

The  Epeira,  therefore,  being  a  drinker  of 
blood,  moderates  the  virulence  of  her  sting, 
even  with  victims  of  appalling  size,  so  sure 
is  she  of  her  retiarian  art.  The  long- 
legged  Tryxalis,^  the  corpulent  Grey  Locust, 
the  largest  of  our  Grasshoppers,  are  accepted 
without  hesitation  and  sucked  dry  as  soon  as 
numbed.  Those  giants,  capable  of  making  a 
^A  species  of  Grasshopper. — Translator's  Note. 
84 


The  Banded  Epeira 

hole  in  the  net  and  passing  through  it  in  their 
impetuous  onrush,  can  be  but  rarely  caught. 
I  myself  place  them  on  the  web.  The  Spider 
does  the  rest.  Lavishing  her  silky  spray,  she 
swathes  them  and  then  sucks  the  body  at  her 
ease.  With  an  increased  expenditure  of  the 
spinnerets,  the  very  biggest  game  is  mastered 
as  successfully  as  the  every-day  prey. 

I  have  seen  even  better  than  that.  This 
time,  my  subject  is  the  Silky  Epeira  (Epeira 
sericea,  (Oliv.),  with  a  broad,  festooned, 
silvery  abdomen.  Like  that  of  the  other, 
her  web  is  large,  upright  and  'signed'  with 
a  zigzag  ribbon.  I  place  upon  it  a  Praying 
Mantis,^  a  well-developed  specimen,  quite 
capable  of  changing  roles,  should  circum- 
stances permit,  and  herself  making  a  meal  off 
her  assailant.  It  is  a  question  no  longer  of 
capturing  a  peaceful  Locust,  but  a  fierce  and 
powerful  ogre,  who  would  rip  open  the 
Epeira's  paunch  with  one  blow  of  her  har- 
poons. 

*An  insect  akin  to  the  Locusts  and  Crickets,  which, 
when  at  rest,  adopts  an  attitude  resembling  that  of 
prayer.  When  attacking,  it  assumes  what  is  known  as 
'the  spectral  attitude.'  Its  fore-legs  form  a  sort  of 
saw-like  or  barbed  harpoons.  Cf.  Social  Life  in  the 
Insect  World,  by  J.  H.  Fabre,  translated  by  Bernard 
Miall :  Chaps,  v  to  vii. — Translato')''s  Note. 

8S 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Will  the  Spider  dare?  Not  immedi- 
ately. Motionless  in  the  centre  of  her  net, 
she  consults  her  strength  before  attacking  the 
formidable  quarry;  she  waits  until  the  strug- 
gling prey  has  its  claws  more  thickly  en- 
tangled. At  last,  she  approaches.  The 
Mantis  curls  her  belly;  lifts  her  wings  like 
vertical  sails;  opens  her  saw-toothed  arm- 
pieces;  in  short,  adopts  the  spectral  attitude 
which  she  employs  when  delivering  battle. 

The  Spider  disregards  these  menaces. 
Spreading  wide  her  spinnerets,  she  pumps  out 
sheets  of  silk  which  the  hind-legs  draw  out, 
expand  and  fling  without  stint  in  alternate 
armfuls.  Under  this  shower  of  threads,  the 
Mantis'  terrible  saws,  the  lethal  legs,  quickly 
disappear  from  sight,  as  do  the  wings,  still 
erected  in  the  spectral  posture. 

Meanwhile,  the  swathed  one  gives  sudden 
jerks,  which  make  the  Spider  fall  out  of  her 
web.  The  accident  is  provided  for.  A 
safety-cord,  emitted  at  the  same  instant  by 
the  spinnerets,  keeps  the  Epeira  hanging, 
swinging  in  space.  When  calm  is  restored, 
she  packs  her  cord  and  climbs  up  again. 
The  heavy  paunch  and  the  hind-legs  are  now 
bound.     The  flow  slackens,  the  silk  comes 

86 


The  Banded  Epeira 

only  in  thin  sheets.  Fortunately,  the  busi- 
ness is  done.  The  prey  is  invisible  under  the 
thick  shroud. 

The  Spider  retires  without  giving  a  bite. 
To  master  the  terrible  quarry,  she  has  spent 
the  whole  reserves  of  her  spinning-mill, 
enough  to  weave  many  good-sized  webs. 
With  this  heap  of  shackles,  further  precau- 
tions are  superfluous. 

After  a  short  rest  in  the  centre  of  the  net, 
she  comes  down  to  dinner.  Slight  incisions 
are  made  in  different  parts  of  the  prize,  now 
here,  now  there;  and  the  Spider  puts  her 
mouth  to  each  and  sucks  the  blood  of  her 
prey.  The  meal  is  long  protracted,  so  rich 
is  the  dish.  For  ten  hours  I  watch  the  in- 
satiable glutton,  who  changes  her  point  of 
attack  as  each  wound  sucked  dries  up.  Night 
comes  and  robs  me  of  the  finish  of  the  un- 
bridled debauch.  Next  morning,  the  drained 
Mantis  lies  upon  the  ground.  The  Ants  are 
eagerly  devouring  the  remains. 

The  eminent  talents  of  the  Epeirse  are  dis- 
played to  even  better  purpose  in  the  industrial 
business  of  motherhood  than  in  the  art  of 
the  chase.  The  silk  bag,  the  nest,  in  which 
the  Banded  Epeira  houses  her  eggs,  is  a  much 
87 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

greater  marvel  than  the  bird's  nest.  In 
shape  it  is  an  inverted  balloon,  nearly  the 
size  of  a  pigeon's  egg.  The  top  tapers  like  a 
pear  and  is  cut  short  and  crowned  with  a 
scalloped  rim,  the  corners  of  which  are 
lengthened  by  means  of  moorings  that  fasten 
the  object  to  the  adjoining  twigs.  The  whole, 
a  graceful  ovoid,  hangs  straight  down,  amid 
a  few  threads  that  steady  it. 

The  top  is  hollowed  into  a  crater  closed 
with  a  silky  padding.  Every  other  part  is 
contained  In  the  general  wrapper,  formed  of 
thick,  compact  white  satin,  difficult  to  break 
and  impervious  to  moisture.  Brown  and 
even  black  silk,  laid  out  in  broad  ribbons,  in 
spindle-shaped  patterns,  in  fanciful  meridian 
waves,  adorns  the  upper  portion  of  the  ex- 
terior. The  part  played  by  this  fabric  is 
self-evident:  it  is  a  waterproof  cover  which 
neither  dew  nor  rain  can  penetrate. 

Exposed  to  all  the  inclemencies  of  the 
weather,  among  the  dead  grasses,  close  to  the 
ground,  the  Epeira's  nest  has  also  to  protect 
its  contents  from  the  winter  cold.  Let  us 
cut  the  wrapper  with  our  scissors.  Under- 
neath, we  jfind  a  thick  layer  of  reddish-brown 
silk,  not  worked  Into  a  fabric  this  time,  but 
88 


The  Banded  Epeira 

puffed  into  an  extra-fine  wadding.  It  is  a 
fleecy  cloud,  an  incomparable  quilt,  softer 
than  any  swan's-down.  This  is  the  screen 
set  up  against  loss  of  heat. 

And  what  does  this  cosy  mass  protect? 
See:  in  the  middle  of  the  eiderdown  hangs  a 
cylindrical  pocket,  round  at  the  bottom,  cut 
square  at  the  top  and  closed  with  a  padded 
lid.  It  Is  made  of  extremely  fine  satin;  It 
contains  the  Epelra's  eggs,  pretty  little  orange- 
coloured  beads,  which,  glued  together,  form 
a  globule  the  size  of  a  pea.  This  Is  the  treas- 
ure to  be  defended  against  the  asperities  of 
the  winter. 

Now  that  we  know  the  structure  of  the 
work,  let  us  try  to  see  in  what  manner  the 
splnstress  sets  about  It.  The  observation  Is 
not  an  easy  one,  for  the  Banded  Epeira  is  a 
night-worker.  She  needs  nocturnal  quiet  In 
order  not  to  go  astray  amid  the  complicated 
rules  that  guide  her  Industry.  Now  and 
again,  at  very  early  hours  In  the  morning,  I 
have  happened  to  catch  her  working,  which 
enables  me  to  sum  up  the  progress  of  the 
operations. 

My  subjects  are  busy  In  their  bell-shaped 
cages,  at  about  the  middle  of  August.  A 
8q 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

scaffolding  is  first  run  up,  at  the  top  of  the 
dome;  it  consists  of  a  few  stretched  threads. 
The  wire  trellis  represents  the  twigs  and  the 
blades  of  grass  which  the  Spider,  if  at  liberty, 
would  have  used  as  suspension  points.  The 
loom  works  on  this  shaky  support.  The 
Epeira  does  not  see  what  she  is  doing;  she 
turns  her  back  on  her  task.  The  machinery 
is  so  well  put  together  that  the  whole  thing 
goes  automatically. 

The  tip  of  the  abdomen  sways,  a  little  to 
the  right,  a  little  to  the  left,  rises  and  falls, 
while  the  Spider  moves  slowly  round  and 
round.  The  thread  paid  out  is  single.  The 
hind-legs  draw  it  out  and  place  It  in  position 
on  that  which  is  already  done.  Thus  is 
formed  a  satin  receptacle  the  rim  of  which  is 
gradually  raised  until  it  becomes  a  bag  about 
a  centimeter  deep.^  The  texture  Is  of  the 
daintiest.  Guy-ropes  bind  It  to  the  nearest 
threads  and  keep  it  stretched,  especially  at  the 
mouth. 

Then  the  spinnerets  take  a  rest  and  the 
turn  of  the  ovaries  comes.  A  continuous 
shower  of  eggs  falls  Into  the  bag,  which  Is 
filled  to  the  top.     The  capacity  of  the  recep- 

^^g  inch, — Translator's  Note. 
90 


The  Banded  Epeira 

tacle  has  been  so  nicely  calculated  that  there 
is  room  for  all  the  eggs,  without  leaving  any 
space  unoccupied.  When  the  Spider  has 
finished  and  retires,  I  catch  a  momentary 
glimpse  of  the  heap  of  orange-coloured  eggs ; 
but  the  work  of  the  spinnerets  is  at  once 
resumed. 

The  next  business  is  to  close  the  bag.  The 
machinery  works  a  little  differently.  The 
tip  of  the  belly  no  longer  sways  from  side  to 
side.  It  sinks  and  touches  a  point;  it  re- 
treats, sinks  again  and  touches  another  point, 
first  here,  then  there,  describing  inextricable 
zigzags.  At  the  same  time,  the  hind-legs 
tread  the  material  emitted.  The  result  is  no 
longer  a  stuff,  but  a  felt,  a  blanketing. 

Around  the  satin  capsule,  which  contains 
the  eggs,  is  the  eiderdown  destined  to  keep 
out  the  cold.  The  youngsters  will  bide  for 
some  time  in  this  soft  shelter,  to  strengthen 
their  joints  and  prepare  for  the  final  exodus. 
It  does  not  take  long  to  make.  The  spinning- 
mill  suddenly  alters  the  raw  material :  it  was 
turning  out  white  silk;  It  now  furnishes 
reddish-brown  silk,  finer  than  the  other  and 
issuing  in  clouds  which  the  hind-legs,  those 
dexterous  carders,  beat  into  a  sort  of  froth. 

91 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

The  egg-pocket  disappears,  drowned  in  this 
exquisite  wadding. 

The  balloon-shape  is  already  outlined;  the 
top  of  the  work  tapers  to  a  neck.  The 
Spider,  moving  up  and  down,  tacking  first  to 
one  side  and  then  to  the  other,  from  the  very 
first  spray  marks  out  the  graceful  form  as 
accurately  as  though  she  carried  a  compass 
In  her  abdomen. 

Then,  once  again,  with  the  same  sudden- 
ness, the  material  changes.  The  white  silk 
reappears,  wrought  into  thread.  This  is  the 
moment  to  weave  the  outer  wrapper.  Be- 
cause of  the  thickness  of  the  stuff  and  the 
density  of  its  texture,  this  operation  is  the 
longest  of  the  series. 

First,  a  few  threads  are  flung  out,  hither 
and  thither,  to  keep  the  layer  of  wadding  in 
position.  The  Epeira  takes  special  pains 
with  the  edge  of  the  neck,  where  she  fashions 
an  indented  border,  the  angles  of  which,  pro- 
longed with  cords  or  lines,  form  the  main  sup- 
port of  the  building.  The  spinnerets  never 
touch  this  part  without  giving  it,  eadh  time, 
until  the  end  of  the  work,  a  certain  added 
solidity,  necessary  to  secure  the  stability  of  the 
balloon.  The  suspensory  indentations  soon 
92 


The  Banded  Epeira 

outline  a  crater  which  needs  plugging.  The 
Spider  closes  the  bag  with  a  padded  stopper 
similar  to  that  with  which  she  sealed  the  egg- 
pocket. 

When  these  arrangements  are  made,  the 
real  manufacture  of  the  wrapper  begins. 
The  Spider  goes  backwards  and  forwards, 
turns  and  turns  again.  The  spinnerets  do  not 
touch  the  fabric.  With  a  rhythmical,  alter- 
nate movement,  the  hind-legs,  the  sole  im- 
plements employed,  draw  the  thread,  seize  it 
in  their  combs  and  apply  it  to  the  work,  while 
the  tip  of  the  abdomen  sways  methodically  to 
and  fro. 

In  this  way,  the  silken  fibre  is  distributed 
in  an  even  zigzag,  of  almost  geometrical  pre- 
cision and  comparable  with  that  of  the  cotton 
thread  v/hich  the  machines  in  our  factories 
roll  so  neatly  into  balls.  And  this  is  repeated 
all  over  the  surface  of  the  work,  for  the 
Spider  shifts  her  position  a  little  at  every 
moment. 

At  fairly  frequent  intervals,  the  tip  of  the 
abdomen  is  lifted  to  the  mouth  of  the  bal- 
loon ;  and  then  the  spinnerets  really  touch  the 
fringed  edge.  The  length  of  contact  is  even 
considerable.     We  find,  therefore,   that  the 

93 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

thread  is  stuck  in  this  star-shaped  fringe,  the 
foundation  of  the  building  and  the  crux  of 
the  whole,  while  every  elsewhere  it  is  simply 
laid  on,  in  a  manner  determined  by  the  move- 
ments of  the  hind-legs.  If  we  wished  to  un- 
wind the  w^ork,  the  thread  would  break  at 
the  margin;  at  any  other  point,  it  would 
unroll. 

The  Epeira  ends  her  web  with  a  dead- 
white,  angular  flourish;  she  ends  her  nest 
with  brown  mouldings,  which  run  down,  ir- 
regularly, from  the  marginal  junction  to  the 
bulging  middle.  For  this  purpose,  she  makes 
use,  for  the  third  tim.e,  of  a  different  silk; 
she  now  produces  silk  of  a  dark  hue,  vary- 
ing from  russet  to  black.  The  spinnerets 
distribute  the  material  with  a  wide  longitudi- 
nal swing,  from  pole  to  pole;  and  the  hind- 
legs  apply  it  in  capricious  ribbons.  When 
this  is  done,  the  work  is  finished.  The  Spider 
moves  away  with  slow  strides,  without  giving 
a  glance  at  the  bag.  The  rest  does  not  in- 
terest her:  time  and  the  sun  will  see  to  it. 

She  felt  her  hour  at  hand  and  came  down 
from  her  web.  Near  by,  in  the  rank  grass, 
she  wove  the  tabernacle  of  her  offspring  and, 
in  so  doing,  drained  her  resources.     To  re- 

94 


The  Banded  Epeira 

sume  her  hunting-post,  to  return  to  her  web 
would  be  useless  to  her:  she  has  not  the 
wherewithal  to  bind  the  prey.  Besides,  the 
fine  appetite  of  former  days  has  gone. 
Withered  and  languid,  she  drags  out  her  ex- 
istence for  a  few  days  and,  at  last,  dies.  This 
is  how  things  happen  In  my  cages;  this  Is  how 
they  must  happen  In  the  brushwood. 

The  Silky  Epeira  {Epeira  sericea,  Oliv.) 
excels  the  Banded  Epeira  In  the  manufacture 
of  big  hunting-nets,  but  she  is  less  gifted  in 
the  art  of  nest-building.  She  gives  her  nest 
the  Inelegant  form  of  an  obtuse  cone.  The 
opening  of  this  pocket  Is  very  wide  and  is 
scalloped  into  lobes  by  which  the  edifice  is 
slung.  It  is  closed  with  a  large  lid,  half  satin, 
half  swan's-down.  The  rest  is  a  stout  white 
fabric,  frequently  covered  with  irregular 
brown  streaks. 

The  difference  between  the  work  of  the 
two  Epeirae  does  not  extend  beyond  the  wrap- 
per, which  Is  an  obtuse  cone  In  the  one  case 
and  a  balloon  In  the  other.  The  same  In- 
ternal arrangements  prevail  behind  this  front- 
age: first,  a  flossy  quilt;  next,  a  little  keg  in 
which  the  eggs  are  packed.  Though  the  two 
Spiders   build   the   outer   wall   according  to 

95 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

special  architectural  rules,  they  both  employ 
the  same  means  as  a  protection  against  the 
cold. 

As  we  see,  the  egg-bag  of  the  Epeirae, 
particularly  that  of  the  Banded  Epeira,  is  an 
Important  and  complex  work.  Various  ma- 
terials enter  into  its  composition:  white  silk, 
red  silk,  brown  silk;  moreover,  these  materi- 
als are  worked  into  dissimilar  products :  stout 
cloth,  soft  eiderdown,  dainty  satinette,  porous 
felt.  And  all  of  this  comes  from  the  same 
workshop  that  weaves  the  hunting-net,  warps 
the  zigzag  ribbon-band  and  casts  an  entan- 
gling shroud  over  the  prey. 

What  a  wonderful  silk- factory  it  is !  With 
a  very  simple  and  never-varying  plant,  con- 
sisting of  the  hind-legs  and  the  spinnerets,  it 
produces,  by  turns,  rope-maker's,  spinner's, 
weaver's,  ribbon-maker's  and  fuller's  work. 
How  does  the  Spider  direct  an  establish- 
ment of  this  kind?  How  does  she  obtain,  at 
will,  skeins  of  diverse  hues  and  grades? 
How  does  she  turn  them  out,  first  in  this 
fashion,  then  in  that?  I  see  the  results,  but 
I  do  not  understand  the  machinery  and  still 
less  the  process.     It  beats  me  altogether. 

The  Spider  also  sometimes  loses  her  head 
96 


The  Banded  Epeira 

in  her  difficult  trade,  when  some  trouble  dis- 
turbes  the  peace  of  her  nocturnal  labours. 
I  do  not  provoke  this  trouble  myself,  for  I 
am  not  present  at  those  unseasonable  hours. 
It  is  simply  due  to  the  conditions  prevailing  in 
my  menagerie. 

In  their  natural  state,  the  Epeirse  settle 
separately,  at  long  distances  from  one  another. 
Each  has  her  own  hunting-grounds,  where 
there  is  no  reason  to  fear  the  competition 
that  would  result  from  the  close  proximity 
of  the  nets.  In  my  cages,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  is  cohabitation.  In  order  to  save  space, 
I  lodge  two  or  three  Epeirae  in  the  same  cage. 
My  easy-going  captives  live  together  in  peace. 
There  is  no  strife  between  them,  no  encroach- 
ing on  the  neighbour's  property.  Each  of 
them  weaves  herself  a  rudimentary  web,  as 
far  from  the  rest  as  possible,  and  here,  rapt 
in  contemplation,  as  though  indifferent  to 
what  the  others  are  doing,  she  awaits  the  hop 
of  the  Locust. 

Nevertheless,  these  close  quarters  have 
their  drawbacks  when  laying-time  arrives. 
The  cords  by  which  the  different  establish- 
ments are  hung  interlace  and  criss-cross  in 
a  confused  network.      When  one  of  them 

97 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

shakes,  all  the  others  are  more  or  less  affected. 
This  is  enough  to  distract  the  layer  from  her 
business  and  to  make  her  do  silly  things. 
Here  are  two  instances. 

A  bag  has  been  woven  during  the  night. 
I  find  it,  when  I  visit  the  cage  in  the  morning, 
hanging  from  the  trellis-work  and  completed. 
It  is  perfect,  as  regards  structure;  it  is  deco- 
rated with  the  regulation  black  meridian 
curves.  There  is  nothing  missing,  nothing 
except  the  essential  thing,  the  eggs,  for  which 
the  spinstress  has  gone  to  such  expense  in  the 
matter  of  silks.  Where  are  the  eggs  ?  They 
are  not  in  the  bag,  which  I  open  and  find 
empty.  They  are  lying  on  the  ground  below, 
on  the  sand  in  the  pan,  utterly  unprotected. 

Disturbed  at  the  moment  of  discharging 
them,  the  mother  has  missed  the  mouth  of  the 
little  bag  and  dropped  them  on  the  floor. 
Perhaps  even,  in  her  excitement,  she  came 
down  from  above  and,  compelled  by  the  ex- 
igencies of  the  ovaries,  laid  her  eggs  on  the 
first  support  that  offered.  No  matter:  if  her 
Spider  brain  contains  the  least  gleam  of  sense, 
she  must  be  aware  of  the  disaster  and  Is  there- 
fore bound  at  once  to  abandon  the  elaborate 
manufacture  of  a  now  superfluous  nest. 
98 


The  Banded  Epeira 

Not  at  all:  the  bag  Is  woven  around  noth- 
ing, as  accurate  in  shape,  as  finished  In  struc- 
ture as  under  normal  conditions.  The  absurd 
perseverance  displayed  by  certain  Bees, 
whose  egg  and  provisions  I  used  to  remove,^ 
is  here  repeated  without  the  slightest  Interfer- 
ence from  me.  My  victims  used  scrupulously 
to  seal  up  their  empty  cells.  In  the  same 
way,  the  Epeira  puts  the  eiderdown  quilting 
and  the  taffeta  wrapper  round  a  capsule  that 
contains  nothing. 

Another,  distracted  from  her  work  by 
some  startling  vibration,  leaves  her  nest  at  the 
moment  when  the  layer  of  red-brown  wad- 
ding is  being  completed.  She  flees  to  the 
dome,  at  a  few  Inches  above  her  unfinished 
work,  and  spends  upon  a  shapeless  mattress, 
of  no  use  whatever,  all  the  silk  with  which 
she  would  have  woven  the  outer  wrapper  if 
nothing  had  come  to  disturb  her. 

Poor  fool!  You  upholster  the  wires  of 
your  cage  with  swan's-down  and  you  leave 
the  eggs  imperfectly  protected.  The  absence 
of  the  work  already  executed  and  the  hard- 
ness of  the  metal  do  not  warn  you  that  you 

*These  experiments  are  described  in  the  author's  es- 
say on  the  Mason  Bees  entitled  Fragments  on  Insect 
Psychology. — Translator's  Note. 

99 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

are  now  engaged  upon  a  senseless  task.  You 
remind  me  of  the  Pelopaeus/  who  used  to 
coat  with  mud  the  place  on  the  wall  whence 
her  nest  had  been  removed.  You  speak  to 
me,  in  your  own  fashion,  of  a  strange  psy- 
chology which  is  able  to  reconcile  the  wonders 
of  a  master-craftsmanship  with  aberrations 
due  to  unfathomable  stupidity. 

Let  us  compare  the  work  of  the  Banded 
Epeira  with  that  of  the  Penduline  Titmouse, 
the  cleverest  of  our  small  birds  in  the  art  of 
nest-building.  This  Tit  haunts  the  osier-beds 
of  the  lower  reaches  of  the  Rhone.  Rocking 
gently  in  the  river  breeze,  his  nest  sways 
pendent  over  the  peaceful  backwaters,  at 
some  distance  from  the  too-impetuous  cur- 
rent. It  hangs  from  the  drooping  end  of  the 
branch  of  a  poplar,  an  old  willow  or  an  alder, 
all  of  them  tall  trees,  favouring  the  banks  of 
streams. 

It  consists  of  a  cotton  bag,  closed  all 
round,  save  for  a  small  opening  at  the  side, 
just  sufficient  to  allow  of  the  mother's  pas- 
sage. In  shape,  it  resembles  the  body  of  an 
alembic,  a  chemist's  retort  with  a  short 
lateral  neck,  or,  better  still,  the  foot  of  a 

^A  species  of  Wasp. — Translator's  Note. 

IOC 


The  Banded  Epeira 

stocking,  with  the  edges  brought  together, 
but  for  a  Httle  round  hole  left  at  one  side. 
The  outward  appearances  increase  the  like- 
ness: one  can  almost  see  the  traces  of  a  knit- 
ting-needle w^orking  with  coarse  stitches. 
That  is  why,  struck  by  this  shape,  the 
Provengal  peasant,  in  his  expressive  language, 
calls  the  Penduline  lou  Debassaire,  the  Stock- 
ing-knitter. 

The  early-ripening  seedlets  of  the  willows 
and  poplars  furnish  the  materials  for  the 
work.  There  breaks  from  them,  in  May,  a 
sort  of  vernal  snow,  a  fine  down,  which  the 
eddies  of  the  air  heap  in  the  crevices  of  the 
ground.  It  is  a  cotton  similar  to  that  of  our 
manufactures,  but  of  very  short  staple.  It 
comes  from  an  inexhaustible  warehouse :  the 
tree  is  bountiful;  and  the  wind  from  the  osier- 
beds  gathers  the  tiny  flocks  as  they  pour  from 
the  seeds.    They  are  easy  to  pick  up. 

The  difficulty  is  to  set  to  work.  How  does 
the  bird  proceed,  in  order  to  knit  its  stock- 
ing? How,  with  such  simple  implements  as 
Its  beak  and  claws,  does  it  manage  to  produce 
a  fabric  which  our  skilled  fingers  would  fail 
to  achieve?  An  examination  of  the  nest  wiU 
inform  us,  to  a  certain  extent. 

lOI 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

The  cotton  of  the  poplar  cannot,  of 
itself,  supply  a  hanging  pocket  capable  of 
supporting  the  weight  of  the  brood  and 
resisting  the  buffeting  of  the  wind. 
Rammed,  entangled  and  packed  together, 
the  flocks,  similar  to  those  which  ordinary 
wadding  would  give  if  chopped  up  very 
fine,  would  produce  only  an  agglomeration 
devoid  of  cohesion  and  liable  to  be  dis- 
pelled by  the  first  breath  of  air.  They 
require  a  canvas,  a  woof,  to  keep  them  in 
position. 

Tiny  dead  stalks,  with  fibrous  barks,  well 
softened  by  the  action  of  moisture  and  the 
air,  furnish  the  Penduline  with  a  coarse  tow, 
not  unlike  that  of  hemp.  With  these  liga- 
ments, purged  of  every  woody  particle  and 
tested  for  flexibility  and  tenacity,  he  winds 
a  number  of  loops  round  the  end  of  the 
branch  which  he  has  selected  as  a  support 
for  his  structure. 

It  is  not  a  very  accurate  piece  of  work. 
The  loops  run  clumsily  and  anyhow:  some 
are  slacker,  others  tighter;  but,  when  all  Is 
said,  it  is  solid,  which  is  the  main  point. 
Also,  this  fibrous  sheath,  the  keystone  of  the 
edifice,    occupies    a    fair    length    of    branch, 

102 


The  Banded  Epeira 

which  enables  the  fastenings  for  the  net  to 
be  multiphed. 

The  several  straps,  after  describing  a  cer- 
tain number  of  turns,  ravel  out  at  the  ends 
and  hang  loose.  After  them  come  inter- 
laced threads,  greater  in  number  and  finer  in 
texture.  In  the  tangled  jumble  occur  what 
might  almost  be  described  as  weaver's  knots. 
As  far  as  one  can  judge  by  the  result  alone, 
without  having  seen  the  bird  at  work,  this  is 
how  the  canvas,  the  support  of  the  cotton 
wall,  is  obtained. 

This  woof,  this  inner  framework,  is  ob- 
viously not  constructed  in  its  entirety  from 
the  start;  it  goes  on  gradually,  as  the  bird 
stuffs  the  part  above  it  with  cotton.  The 
wadding,  picked  up  bit  by  bit  from  the 
ground,  is  teazled  by  the  bird's  claws  and  in- 
serted, all  fleecy,  into  the  meshes  of  the 
canvas.  The  beak  pushes  it,  the  breast  presses 
it,  both  inside  and  out.  The  result  is  a  soft 
felt  a  couple  of  inches  thick. 

Near  the  top  of  the  pouch,  on  one  side,  is 
contrived  a  narrow  orifice,  tapering  into  a 
short  neck.  This  is  the  kitchen-door.  In 
order  to  pass  through  it,  the  Penduline,  small 
though  he  be,  has  to  force  the  elastic  parti- 
103 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

tion,  which  yields  slightly  and  then  contracts. 
Lastly,  the  house  is  furnished  with  a  mattress 
of  first-quality  cotton.  Here  lie  from  six  to 
eight  white  eggs,  the  size  of  a  cherry-stone. 

Well,  this  wonderful  nest  is  a  barbarous 
casemate  compared  with  that  of  the  Banded 
Epeira.  As  regards  shape,  this  stocking-foot 
cannot  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath  with 
the  Spider's  elegant  and  faultlessly-rounded 
balloon.  The  fabric  of  mixed  cotton  and 
tow  is  a  rustic  frieze  beside  the  spinstress' 
satin;  the  suspension-straps  are  clumsy  cables 
compared  with  the  delicate  silk  fastenings. 
Where  shall  we  find  in  the  Penduline's  mat- 
tress aught  to  vie  with  the  Epeira's  eider- 
down, that  teazled  russet  gossamer?  The 
Spider  is  superior  to  the  bird  in  every  way, 
in  so  far  as  concerns  her  work. 

But,  on  her  side,  the  Penduline  Is  a  more 
devoted  mother.  For  weeks  on  end,  squat- 
ting at  the  bottom  of  her  purse,  she  presses  to 
her  heart  the  eggs,  those  little  white  pebbles 
from  which  the  warmth  of  her  body  will 
bring  forth  life.  The  Epeira  knows  not  these 
softer  passions.  Without  bestowing  a  second 
glance  on  it,  she  abandons  her  nest  to  its  fat(?, 
be  it  good  or  ill. 

104 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   NARBONNE    LYCOSA 

THE  Epeira,  who  displays  such  aston- 
ishing industry  to  give  her  eggs  a 
dweUing-house  of  incomparable  perfection, 
becomes,  after  that,  careless  of  her  family. 
For  what  reason?  She  lacks  the  time.  She 
has  to  die  when  the  first  cold  comes,  whereas 
the  eggs  are  destined  to  pass  the  winter  in 
their  downy  snuggery.  The  desertion  of  the 
nest  is  inevitable,  owing  to  the  very  force  of 
things.  But,  if  the  hatching  were  earlier  and 
took  place  in  the  Epeira's  lifetime,  I  imagine 
that  she  would  rival  the  bird  in  devotion. 

So  I  gather  from  the  analogy  of  Thomisus 
onustus,  Walck.,  a  shapely  Spider  Avho 
weaves  no  web,  lies  in  wait  for  her  prey  and 
walks  sideways,  after  the  manner  of  the  Crab. 
I  have  spoken  elsewhere^  of  her  encounters 
with  the  Domestic  Bee,  whom  she  jugulates 
by  biting  her  in  the  neck. 

*In  Chapter  VIII.  of  the  present  volume. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

105 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Skilful  in  the  prompt  despatch  of  her  prey, 
the  little  Crab  Spider  is  no  less  well-versed 
in  the  nesting  art.  I  find  her  settled  on  a 
privet  in  the  enclosure.  Here,  in  the  heart 
of  a  cluster  of  flowers,  the  luxurious  creature 
plaits  a  little  pocket  of  white  satin,  shaped 
like  a  wee  thimble.  It  is  the  receptacle  for 
the  eggs.  A  round,  flat  lid,  of  a  felted 
fabric,  closes  the  mouth. 

Above  this  ceiling  rises  a  dome  of  stretched 
threads  and  faded  flowerets  which  have 
fallen  from  the  cluster.  This  is  the  watcher's 
belvedere,  her  conning-tower.  An  opening, 
which  is  always  free,  gives  access  to  this 
post. 

Here  the  Spider  remains  on  constant  duty. 
She  has  thinned  greatly  since  she  laid  her 
eggs,  has  almost  lost  her  corporation.  At 
the  least  alarm,  she  sallies  forth,  waves  a 
threatening  limb  at  the  passing  stranger  and 
invites  him,  with  a  gesture,  to  keep  his  dis- 
tance. Having  put  the  intruder  to  flight,  she 
quickly  returns  indoors. 

And  what  does  she  do  in  there,  under  her 

arch  of  withered  flowers  and  silk?     Night 

and  day,  she  shields  the  precious  eggs  with 

her  poor  body  spread  out  flat.      Eating   is 

io6 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa 

neglected.  No  more  lying  In  wait,  no  more 
Bees  drained  to  the  last  drop  of  blood. 
Motionless,  rapt  in  meditation,  the  Spider  is 
in  an  incubating  posture,  in  other  words,  she 
is  sitting  on  her  eggs.  Strictly  speaking,  the 
word  'incubating'  means  that  and  nothing 
else. 

The  brooding  Hen  is  no  more  assiduous, 
but  she  is  also  a  heating-apparatus  and,  with 
the  gentle  warmth  of  her  body,  awakens  the 
germs  to  life.  For  the  Spider,  the  heat  of  the 
sun  suffices;  and  this  alone  keeps  me  from 
saying  that  she  'broods.' 

For  two  or  three  weeks,  more  and  more 
wrinkled  by  abstinence,  the  little  Spider  never 
relaxes  her  position.  Then  comes  the  hatch- 
ing. The  youngsters  stretch  a  few  threads 
in  swing-like  curves  from  twig  to  twig.  The 
tiny  rope-dancers  practise  for  some  days  in 
the  sun;  then  they  disperse,  each  intent  upon 
his  own  affairs. 

Let  us  now  look  at  the  watch-tower  of  the 
nest.  The  mother  is  still  there,  but  this  time 
lifeless.  The  devoted  creature  has  known 
the  delight  of  seeing  her  family  born;  she  has 
assisted  the  weaklings  through  the  trap-door; 
and,  when  her  duty  was  done,  very  gently  she 
107 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

died.  The  Hen  does  not  reach  this  height  of 
self-abnegation. 

Other  Spiders  do  better  still,  as,  for  in= 
stance,  the  Narbonne  Lycosa,  or  Black- 
bellied  Tarantula  {Lycosa  narbonnensis^ 
Walck.),  whose  prowess  has  been  described 
in  an  earlier  chapter.  The  reader  will  re= 
member  her  burrow,  her  pit  of  a  bottle-neck's 
width,  dug  in  the  pebbly  soil  beloved  by  the 
lavender  and  the  thyme.  The  mouth  is 
rimmed  by  a  bastion  of  gravel  and  bits  of 
wood  cemented  with  silk.  There  is  nothing 
else  around  her  dwelling:  no  web,  no  snares 
of  any  kind. 

From  her  inch-high  turret,  the  Lycosa  lies 
in  wait  for  the  passing  Locust.  She  gives  a 
bound,  pursues  the  prey  and  suddenly  de- 
prives it  of  motion  with  a  bite  in  the  neck. 
The  game  is  consumed  on  the  spot,  or  else  in 
the  lair;  the  insect's  tough  hide  arouses  no 
disgust.  The  sturdy  huntress  is  not  a  drinker 
of  blood,  like  the  Epeira;  she  needs  solid 
food,  food  that  crackles  between  the  jaws. 
She  is  like  a  Dog  devouring  his  bone. 

Would  you  care  to  bring  her  to  the  light 
of  day  from  the  depths  of  her  well?  Insert 
a  thin  straw  into   the  burrow  and  move  it 

io8 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa 

about.  Uneasy  as  to  what  is  happening 
above,  the  recluse  hastens  to  climb  up  and 
stops,  in  a  threatening  attitude,  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  orifice.  You  see  her  eight 
eyes  gleaming  like  diamonds  in  the  dark;  you 
see  her  powerful  poison-fangs  yawning,  ready 
to  bite.  He  who  is  not  accustomed  to  the 
sight  of  this  horror,  rising  from  under  the 
ground,  cannot  suppress  a  shiver.  B-r-r-r-r! 
Let  us  leave  the  beast  alone. 

Chance,  a  poor  stand-by,  sometimes  con- 
trives very  well.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
month  of  August,  the  children  call  me  to  the 
far  side  of  the  enclosure,  rejoicing  in  a  find 
which  they  have  made  under  the  rosemary 
bushes.  It  Is  a  magnificent  Lycosa,  with  an 
enormous  belly,  the  sign  of  an  impending 
delivery. 

The  obese  Spider  is  gravely  devouring 
something  in  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  on- 
lookers. And  what?  The  remains  of  a 
Lycosa  a  little  smaller  than  herself,  the  re- 
mains of  her  male.  It  is  the  end  of  the 
tragedy  that  concludes  the  nuptials.  The 
sweetheart  is  eating  her  lover.  I  allow  the 
matrimonial  rites  to  be  fulfilled  in  all  their 
horror;  and,  when  the  last  morsel  of  the  un- 

109 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

happy  wretch  has  been  scrunched  up,  I  m» 
carcerate  the  terrible  matron  under  a  cage 
standing  in  an  earthen  pan  filled  with  sand. 

Early  one  morning,  ten  days  later,  I  find 
her  preparing  for  her  confinement.  A  silk 
network  is  first  spun  on  the  ground,  covering 
an  extent  about  equal  to  the  palm  of  one's 
handy.  It  is  coarse  and  shapeless,  but  firmly 
fixed.  This  is  the  floor  on  which  the  Spider 
means  to  operate. 

On  this  foundation,  which  acts  as  a  pro- 
tection from  the  sand,  the  Lycosa  fashions  a 
round  mat,  the  size  of  a  two-franc  piece  and 
made  of  superb  white  silk.  With  a  gentle, 
uniform  movement,  which  might  be  regulated 
by  the  wheels  of  a  delicate  piece  of  clock- 
work, the  tip  of  the  abdomen  rises  and  falls, 
each  time  touching  the  supporting  base  a  little 
farther  away,  until  the  extreme  scope  of  the 
mechanism  is  attained. 

Then,  without  the  Spider's  moving  her 
position,  the  oscillation  Is  resumed  in  the  op- 
posite direction.  By  means  of  this  alternate 
motion,  interspersed  with  numerous  contacts, 
a  segment  of  the  sheet  is  obtained,  of  a  very 
accurate  texture.  When  this  is  done,  the 
Spider  moves  a  little  along  a  circular  line  and 
no 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa 

the  loom  works  In  the  same  manner  on 
another  segment. 

The  silk  disk,  a  sort  of  hardly  concave 
paten,  now  no  longer  receives  aught  from  the 
spinnerets  In  Its  centre;  the  marginal  belt 
alone  Increases  In  thickness.  The  piece  thus 
becomes  a  bowl-shaped  porringer,  surrounded 
by  a  wide,  flat  edge. 

The  time  for  the  laying  has  come.  With 
one  quick  emission,  the  viscous,  pale-yellow 
eggs  are  laid  In  the  basin,  where  they  heap  to- 
gether In  the  shape  of  a  globe  which  projects 
largely  outside  the  cavity.  The  spinnerets 
are  once  more  set  going.  With  short  move- 
ments, as  the  tip  of  the  abdomen  rises  and 
falls  to  weave  the  round  mat,  they  cover  up 
the  exposed  hemisphere.  The  result  is  a  pill 
set  in  the  middle  of  a  circular  carpet. 

The  legs,  hitherto  Idle,  are  now  working. 
They  take  up  and  break  off  one  by  one  the 
threads  that  keep  the  round  mat  stretched  on 
the  coarse  supporting  network.  At  the  same 
time,  the  fangs  grip  this  sheet,  lift  it  by  de- 
grees, tear  It  from  Its  base  and  fold  it  over 
upon  the  globe  of  eggs.  It  Is  a  laborious 
operation.  The  whole  edifice  totters,  the  floor 
collapses,  fouled  with  sand.     By  a  movement 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

of  the  legs,  those  soiled  shreds  are  cast  aside. 
Briefly,  by  means  of  violent  tugs  of  the 
fangs,  which  pull,  and  broom-like  efforts  of 
the  legs,  which  clear  away,  the  Lycosa  extri- 
cates the  bag  of  eggs  and  removes  It  as  a 
clear-cut  mass  free  from  any  adhesion. 

It  is  a  white-silk  pill,  soft  to  the  touch  and 
glutinous.  Its  size  is  that  of  an  average 
cherry.  An  observant  eye  will  notice,  run- 
ning horizontally  around  the  middle,  a  fold 
which  a  needle  Is  able  to  raise  without  break- 
ing it  This  hem,  generally  undlstlngulsh- 
able  from  the  rest  of  the  surface,  is  none 
other  than  the  edge  of  the  circular  mat, 
drawn  over  the  lower  hemisphere.  The  other 
hemisphere,  through  which  the  youngsters 
will  go  out,  is  less  well  fortified :  Its  only  wrap- 
per is  the  texture  spun  over  the  eggs  imme- 
diately after  they  were  laid. 

Inside,  there  is  nothing  but  the  eggs:  no 
mattress,  no  soft  eiderdown,  like  that  of  the 
Epelrae.  The  Lycosa,  indeed,  has  no  need  to 
guard  her  eggs  against  the  inclemencies  of  the 
winter,  for  the  hatching  will  take  place  long 
before  the  cold  weather  comes.  Similarly, 
the  Thomlsus,  with  her  early  brood,  takes 
good   care  not  to   incur  useless    expenditure : 

112 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa 

she  gives  her  eggs,  for  their  protection,  a 
simple  purse  of  satin. 

The  work  of  spinning,  followed  by  that  of 
tearing,  is  continued  for  a  whole  morning, 
from  five  to  nine  o'clock.  Worn  out  with 
fatigue,  the  mother  embraces  her  dear  pill 
and  remains  motionless.  I  shall  see  no  more 
to-day.  Next  morning,  I  find  the  Spider  car- 
rying the  bag  of  eggs  slung  from  her  stern. 

Henceforth,  until  the  hatching,  she  does 
not  leave  go  of  the  precious  burden,  which, 
fastened  to  the  spinnerets  by  a  short  ligament, 
drags  and  bumps  along  the  ground.  With 
this  load  banging  against  her  heels,  she  goes 
about  her  business;  she  walks  or  rests,  she 
seeks  her  prey,  attacks  it  and  devours  It. 
Should  some  accident  cause  the  wallet  to  drop 
off,  it  is  soon  replaced.  The  spinnerets  touch 
it  somewhere,  anywhere,  and  that  is  enough: 
adhesion  is  at  once  restored. 

The  Lycosa  is  a  stay-at-home.  She  never 
goes  out  except  to  snap  up  some  game  passing 
within  her  hunting-domains,  near  the  burrow. 
At  the  end  of  August,  however,  it  is  not  un- 
usual to  meet  her  roaming  about,  dragging  her 
wallet  behind  her.  Her  hesitations  make  one 
think  that  she  is  looking  for  her  home,  which 

113 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

she  has  left  for  the  moment  and  has  a  dif- 
ficulty in  finding. 

Why  these  rambles?  There  are  two  rea- 
sons: first  the  pairing  and  then  the  making 
of  the  pill.  There  is  a  lack  of  space  in  the 
burrow,  which  provides  only  room  enough 
for  the  Spider  engaged  in  long  contempla- 
tion. Now  the  preparations  for  the  egg-bag 
require  an  extensive  flooring,  a  supporting 
frame-work  about  the  size  of  one's  hand,  as 
my  caged  prisoner  has  shown  us.  The  Lycosa 
has  not  so  much  space  at  her  disposal,  in  her 
well;  hence  the  necessity  for  coming  out  and 
working  at  her  wallet  in  the  open  air,  doubt- 
less in  the  quiet  hours  of  the  night. 

The  meeting  with  the  male  seems  likewise 
to  demand  an  excursion.  Running  the  risk  of 
being  eaten  alive,  will  he  venture  to  plunge 
into  his  lady's  cave,  into  a  lair  whence  flight 
would  be  impossible?  It  is  very  doubtful. 
Prudence  demands  that  matters  should  take 
place  outside.  Here  at  least  there  is  some 
chance  of  beating  a  hasty  retreat  which  will 
enable  the  rash  swain  to  escape  the  attacks  of 
his  horrible  bride. 

The  interview  in  the  open  air  lessens  the 
danger  without  removing  it  entirely.  We 
114 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa 

had  proof  of  this  when  we  caught  the  Lycosa 
in  the  act  of  devouring  her  lover  above 
ground,  in  a  part  of  the  enclosure  which  had 
been  broken  for  planting  and  which  was 
therefore  not  suitable  for  the  Spider's  es- 
tablishment. The  burrow  must  have  been 
some  way  off;  and  the  meeting  of  the  pair 
took  place  at  the  very  spot  of  the  tragic  catas- 
trophe. Although  he  had  a  clear  road,  the 
male  was  not  quick  enough  in  getting  away 
and  was  duly  eaten. 

After  this  cannibal  orgy,  does  the  Lycosa 
go  back  home?  Perhaps  not,  for  a  while. 
Besides,  she  would  have  to  go  out  a  second 
time,  to  manufacture  her  pill  on  a  level  space 
of  sufficient  extent. 

When  the  work  is  done,  some  of  them 
emancipate  themselves,  think  they  will  have  a 
look  at  the  country  before  retiring  for  good 
and  all.  It  is  these  whom  we  sometimes  meet 
wandering  aimlessly  and  dragging  their  bag 
behind  them.  Sooner  or  later,  however,  the 
vagrants  return  home;  and  the  month  of 
August  is  not  over  before  a  straw  rustled  in 
any  burrow  will  bring  the  mother  up,  with 
her  wallet  slung  behind  her.  I  am  able  to 
procure  as  many  as  I  want  and,  with  them, 

"5 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

to  indulge  in  certain  experiments  of  the  high- 
est interest. 

It  is  a  sight  worth  seeing,  that  of  the  Ly- 
cosa  dragging  her  treasure  after  her,  never 
leaving  it,  day  or  night,  sleeping  or  waking, 
and  defending  it  with  a  courage  that  strikes 
the  beholder  with  awe.  If  I  try  to  take  the 
bag  from  her,  she  presses  it  to  her  breast  in 
despair,  hangs  on  to  my  pincers,  bites  them 
with  her  poison-fangs.  I  can  hear  the  dag- 
gers grating  on  the  steel.  No,  she  would  not 
allow  herself  to  be  robbed  of  the  wallet  with 
impunity,  if  my  fingers  were  not  supplied 
with  an  implement. 

By  dint  of  pulling  and  shaking  the  pill 
with  the  forceps,  I  take  it  from  the  Lycosa, 
who  protests  furiously.  I  fling  her  in  ex- 
change a  pill  taken  from  another  Lycosa.  It 
is  at  once  seized  in  the  fangs,  embraced  by 
the  legs  and  hung  on  to  the  spinneret.  Her 
own  or  another's  it  is  all  one  to  the  Spider, 
who  walks  away  proudly  with  the  alien  wal- 
let. This  was  to  be  expected,  in  view  of  the 
similarity  of  the  pills  exchanged. 

A  test  of  another  kind,  with  a  second  sub- 
ject, renders  the  mistake  more  striking.  I 
substitute,  in  the  place  of  the  lawful  bag, 
ii6 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa 

which  I  have  removed,  the  work  of  the  Silky 
Epeira.  The  colour  and  softness  of  the  ma- 
terial are  the  same  in  both  cases;  but  the 
shape  is  quite  different.  The  stolen  object  Is 
a  globe;  the  object  presented  in  exchange  is 
an  elliptical  conoid  studded  with  angular  pro- 
jections along  the  edge  of  the  base.  The 
Spider  takes  no  account  of  this  dissimilarity. 
She  promptly  glues  the  queer  bag  to  her  spin- 
nerets and  is  as  pleased  as  though  she  were  in 
possession  of  her  real  pill.  My  experimental 
villainies  have  no  other  consequences  beyond 
an  ephemeral  carting.  When  hatching-time 
arrives,  early  in  the  case  of  the  Lycosa,  late 
in  that  of  the  Epeira,  the  gulled  Spider  aban- 
dons the  strange  bag  and  pays  it  no  further 
attention. 

Let  us  penetrate  yet  deeper  into  the  wallet- 
bearer's  stupidity.  After  depriving  the  Ly- 
cosa of  her  eggs,  I  throw  her  a  ball  of  cork, 
roughly  polished  with  a  file  and  of  the  same 
size  as  the  stolen  pill.  She  accepts  the  corky 
substance,  so  different  from  the  silk  purse, 
without  the  least  demur.  One  would  have 
thought  that  she  would  recognize  her  mistake 
with  those  eight  eyes  of  hers,  which  gleam 
like  precious  stones.  The  silly  creature  pays 
"7 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

no  attention.  Lovingly  she  embraces  the 
cork  ball,  fondles  it  with  her  palpi,  fastens  it 
to  her  spinnerets  and  thenceforth  drags  it 
after  her  as  though  she  were  dragging  her 
own  bag. 

Let  us  give  another  the  choice  between  the 
imitation  and  the  real.  The  rightful  pill  and 
the  cork  ball  are  placed  together  on  the  floor 
of  the  jar.  Will  the  Spider  be  able  to  know 
the  one  that  belongs  to  her?  The  fool  is  in- 
capable of  doing  so.  She  makes  a  wild  rush 
and  seizes  haphazard  at  one  time  her  prop- 
erty, at  another  my  sham  product.  What- 
ever is  first  touched  becomes  a  good  capture 
and  is  forthwith  hung  up. 

If  I  increase  the  number  of  cork  balls,  if 
I  put  in  four  or  five  of  them,  with  the  real 
pill  among  them,  it  is  seldom  that  the  Lycosa 
recovers  her  own  property.  Attempts  at  en- 
quiry, attempts  at  selection  there  are  none. 
Whatever  she  snaps  up  at  random  she  sticks 
to,  be  it  good  or  bad.  As  there  are  more  of 
the  sham  pills  of  cork,  these  are  the  most 
often  seized  by  the  Spider. 

This  obtuseness  baffles  me.  Can  the  animal 
be  deceived  by  the  soft  contact  of  the  cork? 
I  replace  the  cork  balls  by  pellets  of  cotton  or 
-^ 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa 

paper,  kept  in  their  round  shape  with  a  few 
bands  of  thread.  Both  are  very  readily  ac- 
cepted instead  of  the  real  bag  that  has  been 
removed. 

Can  the  illusion  be  due  to  the  colouring, 
which  is  light  in  the  cork  and  not  unlike  the 
tint  of  the  silk  globe  when  soiled  with  a  little 
earth,  while  it  is  white  in  the  paper  and  the 
cotton,  when  it  is  identical  with  that  of  the 
original  pill?  I  give  the  Lycosa,  in  ex- 
change for  her  work,  a  pellet  of  silk  thread, 
chosen  of  a  fine  red,  the  brightest  of  all 
colours.  The  uncommon  pill  is  as  readily 
accepted  and  as  jealously  guarded  as  the 
others. 

We  will  leave  the  wallet-bearer  alone;  we 
know  all  that  we  want  to  know  about  her 
poverty  of  intellect.  Let  us  wait  for  the 
hatching,  which  takes  place  in  the  first  fort- 
night in  September.  As  they  come  out  of  the 
pill,  the  youngsters,  to  the  number  of  about 
a  couple  of  a  hundred,  clamber  on  the 
Spider's  back  and  there  sit  motionless, 
jammed  close  together,  forming  a  sort  of 
bark  of  mingled  legs  and  paunches.  The 
mother  is  unrecognizable  under  this  live  man- 
tilla. When  the  hatching  is  over,  the  wallet 
119 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

is  loosened  from  the  spinnerets  and  cast  aside 
as  a  worthless  rag. 

The  little  ones  are  very  good:  none  stirs, 
none  tries  to  get  more  room  for  himself  at 
his  neighbour's  expense.  What  are  they 
doing  there,  so  quietly?  They  allow  them- 
selves to  be  carted  about,  like  the  young  of 
the  Opossum.  Whether  she  sit  in  long  medi- 
tation at  the  bottom  of  her  den,  or  come  to 
the  orifice,  in  mild  weather,  to  bask  in  the  sun, 
the  Lycosa  never  throws  off  her  great-coat 
of  swarming  youngsters  until  the  fine  season 
comes. 

If,  in  the  middle  of  winter,  in  January,  or 
February,  I  happen,  out  in  the  fields,  to 
ransack  the  Spider's  dwelling,  after  the  rain, 
snow  and  frost  have  battered  it  and,  as  a  rule, 
dismantled  the  bastion  at  the  entrance,  I  al- 
ways find  her  at  home,  still  full  of  vigour, 
still  carrying  her  family.  This  vehicular 
upbringing  lasts  five  or  six  months  at  least, 
without  interruption.  The  celebrated  Ameri- 
can carrier,  the  Opossum,  who  emancipates 
her  offspring  after  a  few  weeks'  carting,  cuts 
a  poor  figure  beside  the  Lycosa. 

What  do  the  little  ones  eat,  on  the  ma- 
ternal spine?    Nothing,  so  far  as  I  know.     I 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa 

do  not  see  them  grow  larger.  I  find 
them,  at  the  tardy  period  of  their  emancipa- 
tion, just  as  they  were  when  they  left  the 
bag. 

During  the  bad  season,  the  mother  herself 
is  extremely  abstemious.  At  long  intervals, 
she  accepts,  in  my  jars,  a  belated  Locust, 
whom  I  have  captured,  for  her  benefit,  in  the 
sunnier  nooks.  In  order  to  keep  herself  in 
condition,  as  when  she  is  dug  up  in  the  course 
of  my  winter  excavations,  she  must  therefore 
sometimes  break  her  fast  and  come  out  in 
search  of  prey,  without,  of  course,  discarding 
her  live  mantilla. 

The  expedition  has  its  dangers.  The 
youngsters  may  be  brushed  off  by  a  blade  of 
grass.  What  becomes  of  them  when  they  have 
a  fall?  Does  the  mother  give  them  a 
thought?  Does  she  come  to  their  assistance 
and  help  them  to  regain  their  place  on  her 
back?  Not  at  all.  The  affection  of  a 
Spider's  heart,  divided  among  some  hun- 
dreds, can  spare  but  a  very  feeble  portion  to 
each.  The  Lycosa  hardly  troubles,  whether 
one  youngster  fall  from  his  place,  or  six,  or 
all  of  them.  She  waits  impassively  for  the 
victims  of  the  mishap  to  get  out  of  their  own 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

difficulty,  which  they  do,  for  that  matter,  and 
very  nimbly. 

I  sweep  the  whole  family  from  the  back 
of  one  of  my  boarders  with  a  hair-pencil. 
Not  a  sign  of  emotion,  not  an  attempt  at 
search  on  the  part  of  the  denuded  one.  After 
trotting  about  a  little  on  the  sand,  the  dis- 
lodged youngsters  find,  these  here,  those 
there,  one  or  other  of  the  mother's  legs, 
spread  wide  in  a  circle.  By  means  of  these 
climbing-poles,  they  swarm  to  the  top  and 
soon  the  dorsal  group  resumes  its  original 
form.  Not  one  of  the  lot  is  missing.  The 
Lycosa's  sons  know  their  trade  as  acrobats  to 
perfection:  the  mother  need  not  trouble  her 
head  about  their  fall. 

With  a  sweep  of  the  pencil,  I  make  the 
family  of  one  Spider  fall  around  another 
laden  with  her  own  family.  The  dislodged 
ones  nimbly  scramble  up  the  legs  and  climb 
on  the  back  of  their  new  mother,  who  kindly 
allows  them  to  behave  as  though  they  be- 
longed to  her.  There  is  no  room  on  the 
abdomen,  the  regulation  resting-place,  which 
Is  already  occupied  by  the  real  sons.  The  in- 
vaders thereupon  encamp  on  the  front  part, 
beset  the  thorax  and  change  the  carrier  into 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa 

a  horrible  pin-cushion  that  no  longer  bears 
the  least  resemblance  to  a  Spider  form. 
Meanwhile,  the  sufferer  raises  no  sort  of  pro- 
test against  this  access  of  family.  She 
placidly  accepts  them  all  and  walks  them  all 
about. 

The  youngsters,  on  their  side,  are  unable 
to  distinguish  between  what  is  permitted  and 
forbidden.  Remarkable  acrobats  that  they 
are,  they  climb  on  the  first  Spider  that  comes 
along,  even  when  of  a  different  species,  pro- 
vided that  she  be  of  a  fair  size.  I  place  them 
in  the  presence  of  a  big  Epeira  marked  with 
a  white  cross  on  a  pale-orange  ground  {Epeira 
pallida,  Oliv.).  The  little  ones,  as  soon  as 
they  are  dislodged  from  the  back  of  the  Ly- 
cosa their  mother,  clamber  up  the  stranger 
without  hesitation. 

Intolerant  of  these  familiarities,  the 
Spider  shakes  the  leg  encroached  upon  and 
flings  the  intruders  to  a  distance.  The  as- 
sault is  doggedly  resumed,  to  such  good 
purpose  that  a  dozen  succeed  in  hoisting  them- 
selves to  the  top.  The  Epeira,  who  is  not 
accustomed  to  the  tickling  of  such  a  load, 
turns  over  on  her  back  and  rolls  on  the 
ground  in  the  manner  of  a  donkey  when  his 
123 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

hide  is  itching.  Some  are  lamed,  some  are 
even  crushed.  This  does  not  deter  the  others, 
who  repeat  the  escalade  as  soon  as  the  Epeira 
is  on  her  legs  again.  Then  come  more  somer- 
saults, more  rollings  on  the  back,  until  the 
giddy  swarm  are  all  discomfited  and  leave  the 
Spider  in  peace. 


124 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  NARBONNE  LYCOSA :    THE  BURROW 

IVTICHELET^  has  told  us  how,  as  a 
''■'-*-  printer's  apprentice  in  a  cellar,  he  es- 
tablished amicable  relations  with  a  Spider. 
At  a  certain  hour  of  the  day,  a  ray  of  sun- 
light would  glint  through  the  window  of  the 
gloomy  workshop  and  light  up  the  little  com- 
positor's case.  Then  his  eight-legged  neigh- 
bour would  come  down  from  her  web  and 
take  her  share  of  the  sunshine  on  the  edge 
of  the  case.  The  boy  did  not  interfere  with 
her;  he  welcomed  the  trusting  visitor  as  a 
friend  and  as  a  pleasant  diversion  from  the 
long  monotony.  When  we  lack  the  society 
of  our  fellow-men,  we  take  refuge  In  that  of 
animals,  without  always  losing  by  the  change. 
I  do  not,  thank  God,  suffer  from  the 
melancholy  of  a  cellar:  my  solitude  Is  gay 
with  light  and  verdure;  I  attend,  whenever 

^Jules  Michelet  (1798-1874),  author  of  L'Oiseau  and 
L'Insecte,  in  addition  to  the  historical  works  for  which 
he  is  chiefly  known.  As  a  lad,  he  helped  his  father,  a 
printer  by  trade,  in  setting  type. — Translator's  Note 


The  Life  of  tl^e  Spider 

I  please,  the  fields'  high  festival,  the 
Thrushes'  concert,  the  Crickets'  symphony; 
and  yet  my  friendly  commerce  with  the 
Spider  is  marked  by  an  even  greater  devotion 
than  the  young  type-setter's.  I  admit  her  to 
the  intimacy  of  my  study,  I  make  room  for 
her  among  my  books,  I  set  her  in  the  sun  on 
my  window-ledge,  I  visit  her  assiduously  at 
her  home,  in  the  country.  The  object  of  our 
relations  is  not  to  create  a  means  of  escape 
from  the  petty  worries  of  life,  pin-pricks 
whereof  I  have  my  share  like  other  men,  a 
very  large  share,  indeed;  I  propose  to  sub- 
mit to  the  Spider  a  host  of  questions  whereto, 
at  times,  she  condescends  to  reply. 

To  what  fair  problems  does  not  the  habit 
of  frequenting  her  give  rise !  To  set  them 
forth  worthily,  the  marvellous  art  which  the 
little  printer  was  to  acquire  were  not  too 
much.  One  needs  the  pen  of  a  Michelet;  and 
I  have  but  a  rough,  blunt  pencil.  Let  us  try, 
nevertheless :  even  when  poorly  clad,  truth  is 
still  beautiful. 

I   will  therefore   once  more   take   up   the 

story  of  the  Spider's  instinct,  a  story  of  which 

the  preceding  chapters  have  given  but  a  very 

rough  idea.     Since  I  wrote  those  earlier  es- 

126 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Burrow 

says,  my  field  of  observation  has  been  greatly 
extended.  My  notes  have  been  enriched  by 
new  and  most  remarkable  facts.  It  is  right 
that  I  should  employ  them  for  the  purpose  of 
a  more  detailed  biography. 

The  exigencies  of  order  and  clearness  ex- 
pose me,  it  is  true,  to  occasional  repetitions. 
This  is  inevitable  when  one  has  to  marshal  in 
an  harmonious  whole  a  thousand  items  culled 
from  day  to  day,  often  unexpectedly,  and 
bearing  no  relation  one  to  the  other.  The 
observer  is  not  master  of  his  time;  oppor- 
tunity leads  him  and  by  unsuspected  ways.  A 
certain  question  suggested  by  an  earlier  fact 
finds  no  reply  until  many  years  after.  Its 
scope,  moreover,  is  amplified  and  completed 
with  views  collected  on  the  road.  In  a  work, 
therefore,  of  this  fragmentary  character,  rep- 
etitions, necessary  for  the  due  co-ordination  of 
ideas,  are  inevitable,  I  shall  be  as  sparing  of 
them  as  I  can. 

Let  us  once  more  introduce  our  old  friends 
the  Epeira  and  the  Lycosa,  who  are  the  most 
important  Spiders  in  my  district.  The  Nar- 
bonne Lycosa,  or  Black-bellied  Tarantula, 
chooses  her  domicile  in  the  waste,  pebbly 
lands  beloved  of  the  thyme.  Her  dwelling, 
127 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

a  fortress  rather  than  a  villa,  is  a  burrow 
about  nine  inches  deep  and  as  wide  as  the 
neck  of  a  claret-bottle.  The  direction  is  per- 
pendicular, in  so  far  as  obstacles,  frequent  in 
a  soil  of  this  kind,  permit.  A  bit  of  gravel 
can  be  extracted  and  hoisted  outside;  but  a 
flint  is  an  immovable  boulder  which  the 
Spider  avoids  by  giving  a  bend  to  her  gallery. 
If  more  such  are  met  with,  the  residence  be- 
comes a  winding  cave,  with  stone  vaults,  with 
lobbies  communicating  by  means  of  sharp 
passages. 

This  lack  of  plan  has  no  attendant  draw- 
backs, so  well  does  the  owner,  from  long 
habit,  know  every  corner  and  storey  of  her 
mansion.  If  any  interesting  buzz  occur 
overhead,  the  Lycosa  climbs  up  from  her 
rugged  manor  with  the  same  speed  as  from 
a  vertical  shaft.  Perhaps  she  even  finds  the 
windings  and  turnings  an  advantage,  when 
she  has  to  drag  into  her  den  a  prey  that  hap- 
pens to  defend  itself. 

As  a  rule,  the  end  of  the  burrow  widens 
into  a  side-chamber,  a  lounge  or  resting-place 
where  the  Spider  meditates  at  length  and  is 
content  to  lead  a  life  of  quiet  when  her  belly 
is  full. 

128 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Burrow 

A  silk  coating,  but  a  scanty  one,  for  the 
Lycosa  has  not  the  wealth  of  silk  possessed 
by  the  Weaving  Spiders,  lines  the  walls  of 
the  tube  and  keeps  the  loose  earth  from  fall- 
ing. This  plaster,  vv^hich  cements  the  inco- 
hesive  and  smooths  the  rugged  parts,  is  re- 
served more  particularly  for  the  top  of  the 
gallery,  near  the  mouth.  Here,  in  the  day- 
time, if  things  be  peaceful  all  around,  the 
Lycosa  stations  herself,  either  to  enjoy  the 
warmth  of  the  sun,  her  great  delight,  or  to  lie 
in  wait  for  game.  The  threads  of  the  silk 
lining  afford  a  firm  hold  to  the  claws  on  every 
side,  whether  the  object  be  to  sit  motionless 
for  hours,  revelling  in  the  light  and  heat,  or 
to  pounce  upon  the  passing  prey. 

Around  the  orifice  of  the  burrow  rises,  to 
a  greater  or  lesser  height,  a  circular  parapet, 
formed  of  tiny  pebbles,  twigs  and  straps  bor- 
rowed from  the  dry  leaves  of  the  neighbour- 
ing grasses,  all  more  or  less  dexterously  tied 
together  and  cemented  with  silk.  This  work 
of  rustic  architecture  is  never  missing,  even 
though  it  be  no  more  than  a  mere  pad. 

When  she  reaches  maturity  and   is  once 
settled,   the   Lycosa  becomes   eminently   do- 
mesticated.    I  have  been  living  in  close  com- 
129 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

munlon  with  her  for  the  last  three  years.  I 
have  installed  her  in  large  earthen  pans  on 
the  window-sills  of  my  study  and  I  have  her 
daily  under  my  eyes.  Well,  it  is  very  rarely 
that  I  happen  on  her  outside,  a  few  inches 
from  her  hole,  back  to  which  she  bolts  at  the 
least  alarm. 

We  may  take  it,  then,  that,  when  not  in 
captivity,  the  Lycosa  does  not  go  far  afield 
to  gather  the  wherewithal  to  build  her  para- 
pet and  that  she  makes  shift  with  what 
she  finds  upon  her  threshold.  In  these 
conditions,  the  building-stones  are  soon  ex- 
hausted and  the  masonry  ceases  for  lack  of 
materials. 

The  wish  came  over  me  to  see  what  di- 
mensions the  circular  edifice  would  assume,  if 
the  Spider  were  given  an  unlimited  supply. 
With  captives  to  whom  I  myself  act  as  pur- 
veyor the  thing  is  easy  enough.  Were  it  only 
with  a  view  to  helping  whoso  may  one  day 
care  to  continue  these  relations  with  the  big 
Spider  of  the  waste-lands,  let  me  describe  how 
my  subjects  are  housed. 

A  good-sized  earthenware  pan,  some  nine 
inches  deep,  is  filled  with  a  red,  clayey  earth, 
rich  in  pebbles,  similar,  in  short,  to  that  of 
130 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Burrow 

the  places  haunted  by  the  Lycosa.  Properly 
moistened  into  a  paste,  the  artificial  soil  is 
heaped,  layer  by  layer,  around  a  central  reed, 
of  a  bore  equal  to  that  of  the  animal's  natural 
burrow.  When  the  receptacle  is  filled  to  the 
top,  I  withdraw  the  reed,  which  leaves  a 
yawning,  perpendicular  shaft.  I  thus  obtain 
the  abode  which  shall  replace  that  of  the 
fields. 

To  find  the  hermit  to  inhabit  it  is  merely 
the  matter  of  a  walk  in  the  neighbourhood. 
When  removed  from  her  own  dwelling, 
which  is  turned  topsy-turvy  by  my  trowel,  and 
placed  in  possession  of  the  den  produced  by 
my  art,  the  Lycosa  at  once  disappears  into 
that  den.  She  does  not  come  out  again,  seeks 
nothing  better  elsewhere.  A  large  wire- 
gauze  cover  rests  on  the  soil  in  the  pan  and 
prevents  escape. 

In  any  case,  the  watch,  in  this  respect,  makes 
no  demands  upon  my  diligence.  The  priso- 
ner is  satisfied  with  her  new  abode  and  mani- 
fests no  regret  for  her  natural  burrow. 
There  is  no  attempt  at  flight  on  her  part. 
Let  me  not  omit  to  add  that  each  pan  must 
receive  not  more  than  one  inhabitant.  The 
Lycosa  is  very  intolerant.  To  her,  a  neigh- 
131 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

hour  is  fair  game,  to  be  eaten  without  scruple 
when  one  has  might  on  one's  side.  Time 
was  when,  unaware  of  this  fierce  intolerance, 
which  is  more  savage  still  at  breeding-time,  I 
saw  hideous  orgies  perpetrated  in  my  over- 
stocked cages.  I  shall  have  occasion  to  de- 
scribe those  tragedies  later. 

Let  us  meanwhile  consider  the  isolated  Ly- 
cosae.  They  do  not  touch  up  the  dwelling 
which  I  have  moulded  for  them  with  a  bit  of 
reed;  at  most,  now  and  again,  perhaps  with 
the  object  of  forming  a  lounge  or  bedroom  at 
the  bottom,  they  fling  out  a  few  loads  of  rub- 
bish. But  all,  little  by  little,  build  the  kerb 
that  is  to  edge  the  mouth. 

I  have  given  them  plenty  of  first-rate  ma- 
terials, far  superior  to  those  which  they  use 
when  left  to  their  own  resources.  These  con- 
sist, first,  for  the  foundations,  of  little  smooth 
stones,  some  of  which  are  as  large  as  an 
almond.  With  this  road-metal  are  mingled 
short  strips  of  raphia,  or  palm-fibre,  flexible 
ribbons,  easily  bent.  These  stand  for  the 
Spider's  usual  basket-work,  consisting  of  slen- 
der stalks  and  dry  blades  of  grass.  Lastly, 
by  way  of  an  unprecedented  treasure,  never 
yet  employed  by  a  Lycosa,  I  place  at  my  cap- 
132 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa;  The  Burrow 

tlves'  disposal  some  thick  threads  of  wool;, 
cut  into  inch  lengths. 

As  I  wish,  at  the  same  time,  to  find  out 
whether  my  animals,  with  the  magnificent 
lenses  of  their  eyes,  are  able  to  distinguish 
colours  and  prefer  one  colour  to  another,  I 
mix  up  bits  of  wool  of  different  hues:  there 
are  red,  green,  white  and  yellow  pieces.  If 
the  Spider  have  any  preference  she  can 
choose  where  she  pleases. 

The  Lycosa  always  works  at  night,  a  re- 
grettable circumstance,  which  does  not  allow 
me  to  follow  the  worker's  methods.  I  see  the 
result;  and  that  is  all.  Were  I  to  visit  the 
building-yard  by  the  light  of  a  lantern,  I 
should  be  no  wiser.  The  animal,  which  is 
very  shy,  would  at  once  dive  into  its  lair;  and 
I  should  have  lost  my  sleep  for  nothing. 
Furthermore,  she  is  not  a  very  diligent 
labourer;  she  likes  to  take  her  time.  Two 
or  three  bits  of  wool  or  raphia  placed  in  posi- 
tion represent  a  whole  night's  work.  And  to 
this  slowness  we  must  add  long  spells  of  utter 
idleness. 

Two  months  pass;  and  the  result  of  my 
liberality  surpasses  my  expectations.  Possess- 
ing more  windfalls  than  they  know  what  to 
133 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

do  with,  all  picked  up  in  their  immediate 
neighbourhood,  my  Lycosae  have  built  them- 
selves donjon-keeps  the  like  of  which  their 
race  has  not  yet  known.  Around  the  orifice, 
on  a  slightly  sloping  bank,  small,  flat,  smooth 
stones  have  been  laid  to  form  a  broken, 
flagged  pavement.  The  larger  stones,  which 
are  Cyclopean  blocks  compared  with  the  size 
of  the  animal  that  has  shifted  them,  are  em- 
ployed as  abundantly  as  the  others. 

On  this  rockwork  stands  the  donjon.  It  is 
an  interlacing  of  raphia  and  bits  of  wool, 
picked  up  at  random,  without  distinction  of 
shade.  Red  and  white,  green  and  yellow  are 
mixed  without  any  attempt  at  order.  The 
Lycosa  is  indifferent  to  the  joys  of  colour. 

The  ultimate  result  is  a  sort  of  muff,  a 
couple  of  inches  high.  Bands  of  silk,  sup- 
plied by  the  spinnerets,  unite  the  pieces,  so 
that  the  whole  resembles  a  coarse  fabric. 
Without  being  absolutely  faultless,  for  there 
are  always  awkward  pieces  on  the  outside, 
which  the  worker  could  not  handle,  the  gaudy 
building  is  not  devoid  of  merit.  The  bird 
lining  its  nest  would  do  no  better.  Whoso 
sees  the  curious,  many-coloured  productions 
in  my  pans  takes  them  for  an  outcome  of  my 

1^4 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Burrow 

industry,  contrived  with  a  view  to  some  ex- 
perimental mischief;  and  his  surprise  is  great 
when  I  confess  who  the  real  author  is.  No 
one  would  ever  believe  the  Spider  capable  of 
constructing  such  a  monument. 

It  goes  without  saying  that,  in  a  state  of 
liberty,  on  our  barren  waste-lands,  the  Ly- 
cosa does  not  indulge  in  such  sumptuous 
architecture.  I  have  given  the  reason :  she  is 
too  great  a  stay-at-home  to  go  in  search  of 
materials  and  she  makes  use  of  the  limited 
resources  which  she  finds  around  her.  Bits 
of  earth,  small  chips  of  stone,  a  few  twigs, 
a  few  withered  grasses;  that  is  all,  or  nearly 
all.  Wherefore  the  work  is  generally  quite 
modest  and  reduced  to  a  parapet  that  hardly 
attracts  attention. 

My  captives  teach  us  that,  when  materials 
are  plentiful,  especially  textile  materials  that 
remove  all  fears  of  landslip,  the  Lycosa  de- 
lights in  tall  turrets.  She  understands  the  art 
of  donjon-building  and  puts  it  into  practice 
as  often  as  she  possesses  the  means. 

This  art  is  akin  to  another,  from  which  It 
is  apparently  derived.  If  the  sun  be  fierce 
or  If  rain  threaten,  the  Lycosa  closes  the  en- 
trance to  her  dwelling  with  a  silken  trellis- 
135 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

work,  wherein  she  embeds  different  matters, 
often  the  remnants  of  victims  which  she  has 
devoured.  The  ancient  Gael  nailed  the  heads 
of  his  vanquished  enemies  to  the  door  of  his 
hut.  In  the  same  way,  the  fierce  Spider  sticks 
the  skulls  of  her  prey  into  the  lid  of  her 
cave.  These  lumps  look  very  well  on  the 
ogre's  roof;  but  we  must  be  careful  not  to 
mistake  them  for  warlike  trophies.  The  ani- 
mal knows  nothing  of  our  barbarous  bravado. 
Everything  at  the  threshold  of  the  burrow  is 
used  indiscriminately :  fragments  of  Locust, 
vegetable  remains  and  especially  particles  of 
earth.  A  Dragon-fly's  head  baked  by  the  sun 
is  as  good  as  a  bit  of  gravel  and  no  better. 

And  so,  with  silk  and  all  sorts  of  tiny 
materials,  the  Lycosa  builds  a  lidded  cap  to 
the  entrance  of  her  home.  I  am  not  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  reasons  that  prompt  her  to 
barricade  herself  indoors,  particularly  as  the 
seclusion  is  only  tem.porary  and  varies  greatly 
in  duration.  I  obtain  precise  details  from  a 
tribe  of  Lycosas  wherewith  the  enclosure,  as 
will  be  seen  later,  happens  to  be  thronged  in 
consequence  of  my  investigations  into  the  dis- 
persal of  the  family. 

At  the  time  of  the  tropical  August  heat,  I 
136 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Burrow 

see  my  Lycosas,  now  this  batch,  now  that, 
building,  at  the  entrance  to  the  burrow,  a  con- 
vex ceiling,  which  is  difficult  to  distinguish 
from  the  surrounding  soil.  Can  it  be  to  pro- 
tect themselves  from  the  too-vivid  light? 
This  is  doubtful;  for,  a  few  days  later, 
though  the  power  of  the  sun  remain  the  same, 
the  roof  is  broken  open  and  the  Spider  re- 
appears at  her  door,  where  she  revels  in  the 
torrid  heat  of  the  dog-days. 

Later,  when  October  comes,  if  it  be  rainy 
weather,  she  retires  once  more  under  a  roof, 
as  though  she  were  guarding  herself  against 
the  damp.  Let  us  not  be  too  positive  of  any- 
thing, however:  often,  when  it  is  raining 
hard,  the  Spider  bursts  her  ceiling  and  leaves 
her  house  open  to  the  skies. 

Perhaps  the  lid  is  only  put  on  for  serious 
domestic  events,  notably  for  the  laying.  I 
do,  In  fact,  perceive  young  Lycosae  who  shut 
themselves  In  before  they  have  attained  the 
dignity  of  motherhood  and  who  reappear, 
some  time  later,  with  the  bag  containing  the 
eggs  hung  to  their  stern.  The  Inference 
that  they  close  the  door  with  the  object 
of  securing  greater  quiet  while  spinning  the 
maternal  cocoon  would  not  be  in  keeping 
137 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

with  the  unconcern  displayed  by  the  majority. 
I  find  some  who  lay  their  eggs  in  an  open 
burrow;  I  come  upon  some  who  weave  their 
cocoon  and  cram  it  with  eggs  in  the  open  air, 
before  they  even  own  a  residence.  In  short, 
I  do  not  succeed  in  fathoming  the  reasons 
that  cause  the  burrow  to  be  closed,  no  matter 
what  the  weather,  hot  or  cold,  wet  or  dry. 

The  fact  remains  that  the  lid  is  broken  and 
repaired  repeatedly,  sometimes  on  the  same 
day.  In  spite  of  the  earthy  casing,  the  silk 
woof  gives  it  the  requisite  pliancy  to  cleave 
when  pushed  by  the  anchorite  and  to  rip  open 
without  falling  into  ruins.  Swept  back  to  the 
circumference  of  the  mouth  and  increased  by 
the  wreckage  of  further  ceilings,  it  becomes 
a  parapet,  which  the  Lycosa  raises  by  degrees 
in  her  long  moments  of  leisure.  The  bastion 
which  surmounts  the  burrow,  therefore,  takes 
its  origin  from  the  temporary  lid.  The  tur- 
ret derives  from  the  split  ceiling. 

What  is  the  purpose  of  this  turret?  My 
pans  will  tell  us  that.  An  enthusiastic  votary 
of  the  chase,  so  long  as  she  is  not  permanently 
fixed,  the  Lycosa,  once  she  has  set  up  house, 
prefers  to  lie  in  ambush  and  wait  for  the 
quarry.  Every  day,  when  the  heat  is  great- 
138 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Burrow 

est,  I  see  my  captives  come  up  slowly  from 
underground  and  lean  upon  the  battlements 
of  their  woolly  castle-keep.  They  are  then 
really  magnificent  in  their  stately  gravity. 
With  their  swelling  belly  contained  within  the 
aperture,  their  head  outside,  their  glassy  eyes 
staring,  their  legs  gathered  for  a  spring,  for 
hours  and  hours  they  wait,  motionless,  bath- 
ing voluptuously  in  the  sun. 

Should  a  tit-bit  to  her  liking  happen  to 
pass,  forthwith  the  watcher  darts  from  her 
tall  tower,  swift  as  an  arrow  from  the  bow. 
With  a  dagger-thrust  in  the  neck,  she  stabs 
the  jugular  of  the  Locust,  Dragon-fly  or 
other  prey  whereof  I  am  the  purveyor;  and 
she  as  quickly  scales  the  donjon  and  retires 
with  her  capture.  The  performance  is  a 
wonderful  exhibition  of  skill  and  speed. 

Very  seldom  is  a  quarry  missed,  provided 
that  It  pass  at  a  convenient  distance,  within 
the  range  of  the  huntress'  bound.  But,  if 
the  prey  be  at  some  distance,  for  instance  on 
the  wire  of  the  cage,  the  Lycosa  takes  no 
notice  of  it.  Scorning  to  go  in  pursuit,  she 
allows  it  to  roam  at  will.  She  never  strikes 
except  when  sure  of  her  stroke.  She  achieves 
this  by  means  of  her  tower.  Hiding  behind 
139 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  wall,  she  sees  the  stranger  advancing, 
keeps  her  eyes  on  him  and  suddenly  pounces 
when  he  comes  within  reach.  These  abrupt 
tactics  make  the  thing  a  certainty.  Though 
he  were  winged  and  swift  of  flight,  the  un- 
wary one  who  approaches  the  ambush  is  lost. 

This  presumes,  it  is  true,  an  exemplary 
patience  on  the  Lycosa's  part;  for  the  burrow 
has  naught  that  can  serve  to  entice  victims. 
At  best,  the  ledge  provided  by  the  turret 
may,  at  rare  intervals,  tempt  some  weary 
wayfarer  to  use  it  as  a  resting-place.  But, 
if  the  quarry  do  not  come  to-day,  it  is  sure 
to  come  to-morrow,  the  next  day,  or  later, 
for  the  Locusts  hop  innumerable  in  the  waste- 
land, nor  are  they  always  able  to  regulate 
their  leaps.  Some  day  or  other,  chance  is 
bound  to  bring  one  of  them  within  the  pur- 
lieus of  the  burrow.  This  is  the  moment  to 
spring  upon  the  pilgrim  from  the  ramparts. 
Until  then,  we  maintain  a  stoical  vigilance. 
We  shall  dine  when  we  can ;  but  we  shall  end 
by  dining. 

The    Lycosa,    therefore,    well    aware    of 

these  lingering  eventualities,  waits  and  is  not 

unduly  distressed  by  a  prolonged  abstinence. 

She  has  an  accommodating  stomach,    which 

140 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa;  The  Burrow 

is  satisfied  to  be  gorged  to-day  and  to  remain 
empty  afterwards  for  goodness  knows  how 
long.  I  have  sometimes  neglected  my  cater- 
ing-duties for  weeks  at  a  time;  and  my 
boarders  have  been  none  the  worse  for  it. 
After  a  more  or  less  protracted  fast,  they  do 
not  pine  away,  but  are  smitten  with  a  wolf- 
like hunger.  All  these  ravenous  eaters  are 
alike :  they  guzzle  to  excess  to-day,  in  antici- 
pation of  to-morrow's  dearth. 

In  her  youth,  before  she  has  a  burrow,  the 
Lycosa  earns  her  living  in  another  manner. 
Clad  in  grey  like  her  elders,  but  without  the 
black-velvet  apron  which  she  receives  on  at- 
taining the  marriageable  age,  she  roams 
among  the  scrubby  grass.  This  is  true  hunt- 
ing. Should  a  suitable  quarry  heave  in  sight, 
the  Spider  pursues  it,  drives  it  from  its  shel- 
ters, follows  it  hot- foot.  The  fugitive  gains 
the  heights,  makes  as  though  to  fly  away.  He 
has  not  the  time.  With  an  upward  leap,  the 
Lycosa  grabs  him  before  he  can  rise. 

I  am  charmed  with  the  agility  wherewith 
my  yearling  boarders  seize  the  Flies  which  I 
provide  for  them.  In  vain  does  the  Fly 
take  refuge  a  couple  of  inches  up,  on  some 
blade  of  grass.  With  a  sudden  spring  into 
141 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  air,  the  Spider  pounces  on  the  prey.  No 
Cat  is  quicker  in  catching  her  Mouse. 

But  these  are  the  feats  of  youth  not  handi- 
capped by  obesity.  Later,  when  a  heavy 
paunch,  dilated  with  eggs  and  silk,  has  to  be 
trailed  along,  those  gymnastic  performances 
become  impracticable.  The  Lycosa  then  digs 
herself  a  settled  abode,  a  hunting-box,  and 
sits  in  her  watch-tower,  on  the  look-out  for 
game. 

When  and  how  Is  the  burrow  obtained 
wherein  the  Lycosa,  once  a  vagrant,  now  a 
stay-at-home,  is  to  spend  the  remainder  of 
her  long  life?  We  are  In  autumn,  the 
weather  is  already  turning  cool.  This  Is  how 
the  Field  Cricket  sets  to  work:  as  long  as 
the  days  are  fine  and  the  nights  not  too  cold, 
the  future  chorister  of  spring  rambles  over 
the  fallows,  careless  of  a  local  habitation.  At 
critical  moments,  the  cover  of  a  dead  leaf 
provides  him  with  a  temporary  shelter.  In 
the  end,  the  burrow,  the  permanent  dwell- 
ing, Is  dug  as  the  Inclement  season  draws 
nigh. 

The  Lycosa  shares  the  Cricket's  views: 
like  him,  she  finds  a  thousand  pleasures  in  the 
vagabond  life.  With  September  comes  the 
142 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Burrow 

nuptial  badge,  the  black-velvet  bib.  The 
Spiders  meet  at  night,  by  the  soft  moon- 
light: they  romp  together,  they  eat  the  be- 
loved shortly  after  the  wedding;  by  day, 
they  scour  the  country,  they  track  the  game 
on  the  short-pile,  grassy  carpet,  they  take 
their  fill  of  the  joys  of  the  sun.  That  is  much 
better  than  solitary  meditation  at  the  bottom 
of  a  well.  And  so  it  is  not  rare  to  see  young 
mothers  dragging  their  bag  of  eggs,  or  even 
already  carrying  their  family,  and  as  yet  with- 
out a  home. 

In  October,  it  is  time  to  settle  down.  We 
then,  in  fact,  find  two  sorts  of  burrows, 
which  differ  in  diameter.  The  larger,  bottle- 
neck burrows  belong  to  the  old  matrons,  who 
have  owned  their  house  for  two  years  at 
least.  The  smaller,  of  the  width  of  a  thick 
lead-pencil,  contain  the  young  mothers,  born 
that  year.  By  dint  of  long  and  leisurely 
alterations,  the  novice's  earths  will  increase  in 
depth  as  well  as  in  diameter  and  become 
roomy  abodes,  similar  to  those  of  the  grand- 
mothers. In  both,  we  find  the  owner  and  her 
family,  the  latter  sometimes  already  hatched 
and  sometimes  still  enclosed  in  the  satin 
wallet. 

143 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Seeing  no  digging-tools,  such  as  the  excava- 
tion of  the  dwelling  seemed  to  me  to  require,  I 
wondered  whether  the  Lycosa  might  not  avail 
herself  of  some  chance  gallery,  the  work  of 
the  Cicada  or  the  Earth-worm.  This  ready- 
made  tunnel,  thought  I,  must  shorten  the 
labours  of  the  Spider,  who  appears  to  be  so 
badly  off  for  tools:  she  would  only  have  to 
enlarge  it  and  put  it  in  order.  I  was  wrong: 
the  burrow  is  excavated,  from  start  to  finish, 
by  her  unaided  labour. 

Then  where  are  the  digging-implements? 
We  think  of  the  legs,  of  the  claws.  We 
think  of  them,  but  reflection  tells  us  that  tools 
such  as  these  would  not  do :  they  are  too  long 
and  too  difficult  to  wield  in  a  confined  space. 
What  is  required  is  the  miner's  short-handled 
pick,  wherewith  to  drive  hard,  to  insert,  to 
lever  and  to  extract;  what  is  required  is  the 
sharp  point  that  enters  the  earth  and  crumbles 
it  into  fragments.  There  remain  the  Ly- 
cosa's  fangs,  delicate  v/eapons  which  we  at 
first  hesitate  to  associate  with  such  work,  so 
illogical  does  it  seem  to  dig  a  pit  with 
surgeon's  scalpels. 

The  fangs  are  a  pair  of  sharp,  curvec? 
points,  which,  when  at  rest,  crook  like  a  finger 
144 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Burrow 

and  take  shelter  between  two  strong  pillars. 
The  Cat  sheathes  her  claws  under  the  velvet 
of  the  paw,  to  preserve  their  edge  and  sharp- 
ness. In  the  same  way,  the  Lycosa  protects 
her  poisoned  daggers  by  folding  them  within 
the  case  of  two  powerful  columns,  which 
come  plumb  on  the  surface  and  contain  the 
muscles  that  work  them. 

Well,  this  surgical  outfit.  Intended  for 
stabbing  the  jugular  artery  of  the  prey,  sud- 
denly becomes  a  pick-axe  and  does  rough 
navvy's  work.  To  witness  the  underground 
digging  Is  Impossible;  but  we  can,  at  least, 
with  the  exercise  of  a  little  patience,  see  the 
rubbish  carted  away.  If  I  watch  my  cap- 
tives, without  tiring,  at  a  very  early  hour — 
for  the  work  takes  place  mostly  at  night  and 
at  long  intervals — In  the  end  I  catch  them 
coming  up  with  a  load.  Contrary  to  what  I 
expected,  the  legs  take  no  part  In  the  carting. 
It  is  the  mouth  that  acts  as  the  barrow.  A 
tiny  ball  of  earth  Is  held  between  the  fangs 
and  is  supported  by  the  palpi,  or  feelers, 
which  are  little  arms  employed  in  the 
service  of  the  mouth-parts.  The  Lycosa 
descends  cautiously  from  her  turret,  goes 
to   some  distance  to  get  rid  of  her  burden 

145 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

and  quickly  dives   down  again  to  bring  up 
more. 

We  have  seen  enough:  we  know  that  the 
Lycosa's  fangs,  those  lethal  weapons,  are  not 
afraid  to  bite  into  clay  and  gravel.  They 
knead  the  excavated  rubbish  into  pellets,  take 
up  the  mass  of  earth  and  carry  it  outside. 
The  rest  follows  naturally;  it  is  the  fangs  that 
dig,  delve  and  extract.  How  finely-tempered 
they  must  be,  not  to  be  blunted  by  this  well- 
sinker's  work  and  to  do  duty  presently  in  the 
surgical  operation  of  stabbing  the  neck! 

I  have  said  that  the  repairs  and  extensions 
of  the  burrow  are  made  at  long  intervals. 
From  time  to  time,  the  circular  parapet  re- 
ceives additions  and  becomes  a  little  higher; 
less  frequently  still,  the  dwelling  is  enlarged 
and  deepened.  As  a  rule,  the  mansion  re- 
mains as  it  was  for  a  whole  season.  Towards 
the  end  of  winter,  in  March  more  than  at  any 
other  period,  the  Lycosa  seems  to  wish  to 
give  herself  a  little  more  space.  This  is  the 
moment  to  subject  her  to  certain  tests. 

We  know  that  the  Field  Cricket,  when  re- 
moved   from   his   burrow   and   caged   under 
conditions  that  would  allow  him  to  dig  him- 
self a  new  home  should  the  fit  seize  him, 
146 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Burrow 

prefers  to  tramp  from  one  casual  shelter  to 
another,  or  rather  abandons  every  idea  of 
creating  a  permanent  residence.  There  is  a 
short  season  whereat  the  instinct  for  build- 
ing a  subterranean  gallery  is  imperatively 
aroused.  When  this  season  is  past,  the  ex- 
cavating artist,  if  accidentally  deprived  of  his 
abode,  becomes  a  wandering  Bohemian,  care- 
less of  a  lodging.  He  has  forgotten  his 
talents  and  he  sleeps  out. 

That  the  bird,  the  nest-builder,  should  neg- 
lect its  art  when  it  has  no  brood  to  care  for 
is  perfectly  logical;  it  builds  for  its  family, 
not  for  itself.  But  what  shall  we  say  of  the 
Cricket,  who  is  exposed  to  a  thousand  mis- 
haps when  away  from  home?  The  protec- 
tion of  a  roof  would  be  of  great  use  to  him; 
and  the  giddy-pate  does  not  give  it  a  thought, 
though  he  is  very  strong  and  more  capable 
than  ever  of  digging  with  his  powerful 
jaws. 

What  reason  can  we  allege  for  this 
neglect?  None,  unless  it  be  that  the  season 
of  strenuous  burrowing  is  past.  The  instincts 
have  a  calendar  of  their  own.  At  the  given 
hour,  suddenly  they  awaken;  as  suddenly, 
afterwards,  they  fall  asleep.  The  ingenious 
147 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

become  incompetent  when  the  prescribed 
period  is  ended. 

On  a  subject  of  this  kind,  we  can  consult 
the  Spider  of  the  waste-lands.  I  catch  an  old 
Lycosa  in  the  fields  and  house  her,  that  same 
day,  under  wire,  in  a  burrow  where  I  have 
prepared  a  soil  to  her  liking.  If,  by  my  con- 
trivances and  with  a  bit  of  reed,  I  have 
previously  moulded  a  burrow  roughly  repre- 
senting the  one  from  which  I  took  her,  the 
Spider  enters  it  forthwith  and  seems  pleased 
with  her  new  residence.  The  product  of  my 
art  is  accepted  as  her  lawful  property  and 
undergoes  hardly  any  alterations.  In  course 
of  time,  a  bastion  is  erected  around  the  ori- 
fice; the  top  of  the  gallery  is  cemented  with 
silk;  and  that  is  all.  In  this  establishment  of 
my  building,  the  animal's  behaviour  remains 
what  it  would  be  under  natural  conditions. 

But  place  the  Lycosa  on  the  surface  of  the 
ground,  without  first  shaping  a  burrow. 
What  will  the  homeless  Spider  do  ?  Dig  her- 
self a  dwelling,  one  would  think.  She  has 
the  strength  to  do  so;  she  is  in  the  prime  of 
life.  Besides,  the  soil  is  similar  to  that 
whence  I  ousted  her  and  suits  the  operation 

perfectly.    We  therefore   expect  to   see  the 
148 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Burrow 

Spider  settled  before  long  In  a  shaft  of  her 
own  construction. 

We  are  disappointed.  Weeks  pass  and  not 
an  effort  is  made,  not  one.  Demoralised  by 
the  absence  of  an  ambush,  the  Lycosa  hardly 
vouchsafes  a  glance  at  the  game  which  I 
serve  up.  The  Crickets  pass  within  her 
reach  In  vain;  most  often  she  scorns  them. 
She  slowly  wastes  away  with  fasting  and  bore- 
dom.   At  length,  she  dies. 

Take  up  your  miner's  trade  again,  poor 
fool !  Make  yourself  a  home,  since  you  know 
how  to,  and  life  will  be  sweet  to  you  for 
many  a  long  day  yet :  the  weather  Is  fine  and 
victuals  plentiful.  Dig,  delve,  go  under- 
ground, where  safety  lies.  Like  an  idiot,  you 
refrain;  and  you  perish.     Why? 

Because  the  craft  which  you  were  wont  to 
ply  Is  forgotten;  because  the  days  of  patient 
digging  are  past  and  your  poor  brain  Is  un- 
able to  work  back.  To  do  a  second  time  what 
has  been  done  already  Is  beyond  your  wit. 
For  all  your  meditative  air,  you  cannot  solve 
the  problem  of  how  to  reconstruct  that  which 
Is  vanished  and  gone. 

Let  us  now  see  what  we  can  do  with 
younger  Lycosas,  who  are  at  the  burrowlng- 

149 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

stage.  I  dig  out  five  or  six  at  the  end  of 
February.  They  are  half  the  size  of  the  old 
ones;  their  burrows  are  equal  in  diameter  to 
my  little  finger.  Rubbish  freshly  spread 
around  the  pit  bears  witness  to  the  recent  date 
of  the  excavations. 

Relegated  to  their  wire  cages,  these  young 
Lycosae  behave  differently  according  as  the 
soil  placed  at  their  disposal  is  or  is  not  al- 
ready provided  with  a  burrow  made  by  me. 
A  burrow  is  hardly  the  word:  I  give  them 
but  the  nucleus  of  a  shaft,  about  an  inch 
deep,  to  lure  them  on.  When  in  possession 
of  this  rudimentary  lair,  the  Spider  does  not 
hesitate  to  pursue  the  work  which  I  have  in- 
terrupted in  the  fields.  At  night,  she  digs 
with  a  will.  I  can  see  this  by  the  heap  of 
rubbish  flung  aside.  She  at  last  obtains  a 
house  to  suit  her,  a  house  surmounted  by  the 
usual  turret. 

The  others,  on  the  contrary,  those  for 
whom  the  thrust  of  my  pencil  has  not  con- 
trived an  entrance-hall  representing,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  the  natural  gallery  whence  I  dis- 
lodged them,  absolutely  refuse  to  work;  and 
they  die,  not  withstanding  the  abundance  of 
provisions. 

ISO 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa;  The  Burrow 

They  first  pursue  the  season's  task.  They 
were  digging  when  I  caught  them;  and,  car- 
ried away  by  the  enthusiasm  of  their  activity, 
they  go  on  digging  inside  my  cages.  Taken 
in  by  my  decoy-shaft,  they  deepen  the  Imprint 
of  the  pencil  as  though  they  were  deepening 
their  real  vestibule.  They  do  not  begin  their 
labours  ov^er  again;  they  continue  them. 

The  second,  not  having  this  inducement, 
this  semblance  of  a  burrow  mistaken  for  their 
own  work,  forsake  the  idea  of  digging  and 
allow  themselves  to  die,  because  they  would 
have  to  travel  back  along  the  chain  of  actions 
and  to  resume  the  pick-strokes  of  the  start. 
To  begin  all  over  again  requires  reflection,  a 
quality  wherewith  they  are  not  endowed. 

To  the  insect — and  we  have  seen  this  in 
many  earlier  cases — what  is  done  is  done  and 
cannot  be  taken  up  again.  The  hands  of  a 
watch  do  not  move  backwards.  The  insect 
behaves  in  much  the  same  way.  Its  activity 
urges  it  In  one  direction,  ever  forwards,  with- 
out allowing  it  to  retrace  Its  steps,  even  when 
an  accident  makes  this  necessary. 

What  the  Mason-bees  and  the  others 
taught  us  erewhile  the  Lycosa  now  confirms 
In  her  manner.      Incapable  of  taking  fresh 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

pains  to  build  herself  a  second  dwelling, 
when  the  first  is  done  for,  she  will  go  on  the 
tramp,  she  will  break  into  a  neighbour's 
house,  she  will  run  the  risk  of  being  eaten 
should  she  not  prove  the  stronger,  but  she 
will  never  think  of  making  herself  a  home  by 
starting  afresh. 

What  a  strange  intellect  is  that  of  the 
animal,  a  mixture  of  mechanical  routine  and 
subtle  brain-power !  Does  it  contain  gleams 
that  contrive,  wishes  that  pursue  a  definite 
object?  Following  in  the  wake  of  so  many 
others,  the  Lycosa  warrants  us  in  entertaining 
a  doubt. 


IS2 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  NARBONNE  LYCOSA :  THE  FAMILY 

T^OR  three  weeks  and  more  the  Lycosa 
-■■  trails  the  bag  of  eggs  hanging  to  her 
spinnerets.  The  reader  will  remember  the  ex- 
periments described  in  the  third  chapter  of  this 
volume,  particularly  those  with  the  cork  ball 
and  the  thread  pellet  which  the  Spider  so  fool- 
ishly accepts  in  exchange  for  the  real  pill. 
Well,  this  exceedingly  dull-witted  mother,  sat- 
isfied with  aught  that  knocks  against  her  heels, 
is  about  to  make  us  wonder  at  her  devotion. 

Whether  she  come  up  from  her  shaft  to 
lean  upon  the  kerb  and  bask  in  the  sun, 
whether  she  suddenly  retire  underground  in 
the  face  of  danger,  or  whether  she  be  roaming 
the  country  before  settling  down,  never  does 
she  let  go  her  precious  bag,  that  very  cumbrous 
burden  in  walking,  climbing  or  leaping.  If, 
by  some  accident,  it  become  detached  from  the 
fastening  to  which  it  Is  hung,  she  flings  herself 
madly  on  her  treasure  and  lovingly  embraces 
it,  ready  to  bite  whoso  would  take  It  from 
153 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

her.  I  myself  am  sometimes  the  thief.  I  then 
hear  the  points  of  the  poison-fangs  grinding 
against  the  steel  of  my  pincers,  which  tug  in 
one  direction  while  the  Lycosa  tugs  in  the 
other.  But  let  us  leave  the  animal  alone :  with 
a  quick  touch  of  the  spinnerets,  the  pill  is  re- 
stored to  its  place;  and  the  Spider  strides  off, 
still  menacing. 

Towards  the  end  of  summer,  all  the  house- 
holders, old  or  young,  whether  in  captivity  on 
the  window-sill  or  at  liberty  in  the  paths  of  the 
enclosure,  supply  me  daily  with  the  following 
Improving  sight.  In  the  morning,  as  soon  as 
the  sun  is  hot  and  beats  upon  their  burrow,  the 
anchorites  come  up  from  the  bottom  with  their 
bag  and  station  themselves  at  the  opening. 
Long  siestas  on  the  threshold  in  the  sun  are  the 
order  of  the  day  throughout  the  fine  season; 
but,  at  the  present  time,  the  position  adopted 
is  a  different  one.  Formerly,  the  Lycosa  came 
out  Into  the  sun  for  her  own  sake.  Leaning 
on  the  parapet,  she  had  the  front  half  of  her 
body  outside  the  pit  and  the  hinder  half  Inside. 
The  eyes  took  their  fill  of  light;  the  belly  re- 
mained In  the  dark.  When  carrying  her  egg- 
bag  the  Spider  reverses  the  posture :  the  front 
is  in  the  pit,  the  rear  outside.  With  her  hind' 
154 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Family 

legs  she  holds  the  white  pill,  bulging  with 
germs,  lifted  above  the  entrance;  gently  she 
turns  and  returns  it,  so  as  to  present  every  side 
to  the  life-giving  rays.  And  this  goes  on  for 
half  the  day,  as  long  as  the  temperature  is 
high;  and  it  is  repeated  daily,  with  exquisite 
patience,  during  three  or  four  weeks.  To 
hatch  its  eggs,  the  bird  covers  them  with  the 
quilt  of  its  breast;  it  strains  them  to  the  fur- 
nace of  its  heart.  The  Lycosa  turns  hers  in 
front  of  the  hearth  of  hearths :  she  gives  them 
the  sun  as  an  incubator. 

In  the  early  days  of  September,  the  young 
ones,  who  have  been  some  time  hatched,  are 
ready  to  come  out.  The  pill  rips  open  along 
the  middle  fold.  We  read  of  the  origin  of 
this  fold  in  an  earlier  chapter.^  Does  the 
mother,  feeling  the  brood  quicken  inside  the 
satin  wrapper,  herself  break  open  the  vessel  at 
the  opportune  moment?  It  seems  probable. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  may  be  a  spontaneous 
bursting,  such  as  we  shall  see  later  in  the 
Banded  Epeira's  balloon,  a  tough  wallet  which 
opens  a  breach  of  its  own  accord,  long  after 
the  mother  has  ceased  to  exist. 

^Chapter    III.    of   the    present   volume. — Translator's 

Note. 

155 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

The  whole  family  emerges  from  the  bag 
straightway.  Then  and  there,  the  youngsters 
climb  to  the  mother's  back.  As  for  the  empty 
bag,  now  a  worthless  shred,  it  is  flung  out  of 
the  burrow ;  the  Lycosa  does  not  give  it  a  fur- 
ther thought.  Huddled  together,  sometimes 
in  two  or  three  layers,  according  to  their  num- 
ber, the  little  ones  cover  the  whole  back  of 
the  mother,  who,  for  seven  or  eight  months  to 
come,  will  carry  her  family  night  and  day. 
Nowhere  can  we  hope  to  see  a  more  edifying 
domestic  picture  than  that  of  the  Lycosa 
clothed  in  her  young. 

From  tim^e  to  time,  I  meet  a  little  band  of 
gipsies  passing  along  the  high-road  on  their 
way  to  some  neighbouring  fair.  The  new- 
born babe  mewls  on  the  mother's  breast,  in  a 
hammock  formed  out  of  a  kerchief.  The  last- 
weaned  is  carried  pick-a-back;  a  third  tod- 
dles, clinging  to  its  mother's  skirts ;  others  fol- 
low closely,  the  biggest  in  the  rear,  ferreting 
in  the  blackberry-laden  hedgerows.  It  is  a 
magnificent  spectacle  of  happy-go-lucky  fruit- 
fulness.  They  go  their  way,  penniless  and  re- 
joicing. The  sun  is  hot  and  the  earth  is 
fertile. 

But  how  this  picture  pales  before  that  of 
is6 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Family 

the  Lycosa,  that  Incomparable  gipsy  whc»se 
brats  are  numbered  by  the  hundred !  And 
one  and  all  of  them,  from  September  to  April, 
without  a  moment's  respite,  find  room  upon 
the  patient  creature's  back,  where  they  are 
content  to  lead  a  tranquil  life  and  to  be 
carted  about. 

The  little  ones  are  very  good;  none  moves, 
none  seeks  a  quarrel  with  his  neighbours. 
Clinging  together,  they  form  a  continuous 
drapery,  a  shaggy  ulster  under  which  the 
mother  becomes  unrecognizable.  Is  it  an  ani- 
mal, a  fluff  of  wool,  a  cluster  of  small  seeds 
fastened  to  one  another?  'Tis  Impossible  to 
tell  at  the  first  glance. 

The  equilibrium  of  this  living  blanket  Is  not 
so  firm  but  that  falls  often  occur,  especially 
when  the  mother  climbs  from  Indoors  and 
comes  to  the  threshold  to  let  the  little  ones 
take  the  sun.  The  least  brush  against  the  gal- 
lery unseats  a  part  of  the  family.  The  mishap 
Is  not  serious.  The  Hen,  fidgeting  about  her 
Chicks,  looks  for  the  strays,  calls  them,  gath- 
ers them  together.  The  Lycosa  knows  not 
these  maternal  alarms.  Impassively,  she  leaves 
those  who  drop  off  to  manage  their  own  dif- 
ficulty, which  they  do  with  wonderful  quick- 
157 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

ness.  Commend  me  to  those  youngsters  fof 
getting  up  without  whining,  dusting  them- 
selves and  resuming  their  seat  in  the  saddle  I 
The  unhorsed  ones  promptly  find  a  leg  of  the 
mother,  the  usual  climbing-pole;  they  swarm 
up  it  as  fast  as  they  can  and  recover  their 
places  on  the  bearer's  back.  The  living  bark 
of  animals  is  reconstructed  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye. 

To  speak  here  of  mother-love  were,  I 
think,  extravagant.  The  Lycosa's  affection  for 
her  offspring  hardly  surpasses  that  of  the 
plant,  which  is  unacquainted  with  any  tender 
feeling  and  nevertheless  bestows  the  nicest 
and  most  delicate  care  upon  its  seeds.  The 
animal,  in  many  cases,  knows  no  other  sense 
of  m.otherhood.  What  cares  the  Lycosa  for 
her  brood !  She  accepts  another's  as  readily 
as  her  own;  she  is  satisfied  so  long  as  her  back 
is  burdened  with  a  swarming  crowd,  whether 
it  issue  from  her  ovaries  or  elsewhence.  There 
is  no  question  here  of  real  maternal  affection. 

I  have  described  elsewhere  the  prowess  of 
the  Copris^  watching  over  cells  that  are  not 

*A  species  of  Dung-beetle.  Cf.  The  Life  and  Love  of 
the  Insect,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre,  translated  by  Alexander 
Teixeira  de  Mattos :  chap.  v. — Translator's  Note. 

iS8 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Family 

her  handiwork  and  do  not  contain  her  off- 
spring. With  a  zeal  which  even  the  addi- 
tional labour  laid  upon  her  does  not  easily 
weary,  she  removes  the  mildew  from  the  alien 
dung-balls,  which  far  exceed  the  regular  nests 
in  number;  she  gently  scrapes  and  polishes  and 
repairs  them;  she  listens  to  them  attentively 
and  enquires  by  ear  into  each  nursling's  prog- 
ress. Her  real  collection  could  not  receive 
greater  care.  Her  own  family  or  another's: 
it  is  all  one  to  her. 

The  Lycosa  is  equally  indifferent.  I  take 
a  hair-pencil  and  sweep  the  living  burden 
from  one  of  my  Spiders,  making  it  fall  close 
to  another  covered  with  her  little  ones.  The 
evicted  youngsters  scamper  about,  find  the 
new  mother's  legs  outspread,  nimbly  clamber 
up  these  and  mount  on  the  back  of  the  oblig- 
ing creature,  who  quietly  lets  them  have 
their  way.  They  slip  in  among  the  others, 
or,  when  the  layer  is  too  thick,  push  to  the 
front  and  pass  from  the  abdomen  to  the 
thorax  and  even  to  the  head,  though  leaving 
the  region  of  the  eyes  uncovered.  It  does  not 
do  to  blind  the  bearer:  the  common  safety  de- 
mands that.  They  know  this  and  respect  the 
lenses  of  the  eyes,  however  populous  the  as- 
159 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

sembly  be.  The  whole  animal  is  now  covered 
with  a  swarming  carpet  of  young,  all  except 
the  legs,  which  must  preserve  their  freedom 
of  action,  and  the  under  part  of  the  body, 
where  contact  with  the  ground  is  to  be  feared. 

My  pencil  forces  a  third  family  upon  the  al- 
ready overburdened  Spider;  and  this,  too,  is 
peacefully  accepted.  The  youngsters  huddle 
up  closer,  lie  one  on  top  of  the  other  in  layers 
and  room  is  found  for  all.  The  Lycosa  has 
lost  the  last  semblance  of  an  animal,  has  be- 
come a  nameless  bristling  thing  that  walks 
about.  Falls  are  frequent  and  are  followed 
by  continual  climbings. 

I  perceive  that  I  have  reached  the  limits  not 
of  the  bearer's  good-will,  but  of  equilibrium. 
The  Spider  would  adopt  an  indefinite  further 
number  of  foundlings,  if  the  dimensions  of  her 
back  afforded  them  a  firm  hold.  Let  us  be 
content  with  this.  Let  us  restore  each  family 
to  its  mother,  drawing  at  random  from  the 
lot.  There  must  necessarily  be  interchanges, 
but  that  is  of  no  importance :  real  children  and 
adopted  children  are  the  same  thing  in  the 
Lycosa's  eyes. 

Onfi  would  like  to  know  if,  apart  from  my 
artifices,  in  circumstances  where  I  do  not  in- 
i6o 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Family 

terfere,  the  good-natured  dry-nurse  sometimes 
burdens  herself  with  a  supplementary  family; 
it  would  also  be  interesting  to  learn  what 
comes  of  this  association  of  lawful  offspring 
and  strangers.  I  have  ample  materials  where- 
with to  obtain  an  answer  to  both  questions.  I 
have  housed  in  the  same  cage  two  elderly 
matrons  laden  with  youngsters.  Each  has  her 
home  as  far  removed  from  the  other  as  the 
size  of  the  common  pan  permits.  The  distance 
is  nine  inches  or  more.  It  is  not  enough.  Prox- 
imity soon  kindles  fierce  jealousies  between 
those  intolerant  creatures,  who  are  obliged  to 
live  far  apart,  so  as  to  secure  adequate  hunt- 
ing-grounds. 

One  morning,  I  catch  the  two  harridans 
fighting  out  their  quarrel  on  the  floor.  The 
loser  is  laid  flat  upon  her  back;  the  victress, 
belly  to  belly  with  her  adversary,  clutches  her 
with  her  legs  and  prevents  her  from  moving  a 
limb.  Both  have  their  poison-fangs  wide  open, 
ready  to  bite  without  yet  daring,  so  mutually 
formidable  are  they.  After  a  certain  period 
of  waiting,  during  which  the  pair  merely  ex- 
change threats,  the  stronger  of  the  two,  the 
one  on  top  closes  her  lethal  engine  and  grinds 
the  head  of  the  prostrate  foe.  Then  she 
i6i 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

calmly  devours  the  deceased  by  small  mouth- 
fuls. 

Now  what  do  the  youngsters  do,  while  their 
mother  is  being  eaten?  Easily  consoled,  heed- 
less of  the  atrocious  scene,  they  climb  on  the 
conqueror's  back  and  quietly  take  their  places 
among  the  lawful  family.  The  ogress  raises 
no  objection,  accepts  them  as  her  own.  She 
makes  a  meal  off  the  mother  and. adopts  the 
orphans. 

Let  us  add  that,  for  many  months  yet,  until 
the  final  emancipation  comes,  she  will  carry 
them  without  drawing  any  distinction  between 
them  and  her  own  young.  Henceforth,  the 
two  families,  united  in  so  tragic  a  fashion,  will 
form  but  one.  We  see  how  greatly  out  of 
place  it  would  be  to  speak,  in  this  connection, 
of  mother-love  and  its  fond  manifestations. 

Does  the  Lycosa  at  least  feed  the  young- 
lings who,  for  seven  months,  swarm  upon  her 
back?  Does  she  invite  them  to  the  banquet 
when  she  has  secured  a  prize?  I  thought  so 
at  first;  and,  anxious  to  assist  at  the  family  re- 
past, I  devoted  special  attention  to  watching 
the  mothers  eat.  As  a  rule  the  prey 
is  consumed  out  of  sight,  in  the  bur- 
row; but  sometimes  also  a  meal  is  taken 
162 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Family 

on  the  threshold,  in  the  open  air.  Besides,  it 
is  easy  to  rear  the  Lycosa  and  her  family  in  a 
wire-gauze  cage,  with  a  layer  of  earth  where- 
in the  captive  will  never  dream  of  sinking 
a  well,  such  work  being  out  of  season.  Every- 
thing then  happens  out  of  doors. 

Well,  while  the  mother  munches,  chews,  ex- 
presses the  juices  and  swallows,  the  youngsters 
do  not  budge  from  their  camping-ground  on 
her  back.  Not  one  quits  its  place  nor  gives 
a  sign  of  wishing  to  slip  down  and  join  in 
the  meal.  Nor  does  the  mother  extend  an 
invitation  to  them  to  come  and  recruit  them- 
selves, nor  put  any  broken  victuals  aside  for 
them.  She  feeds  and  the  others  look  on,  or 
rather  remain  indifferent  to  what  is  happen- 
ing. Their  perfect  quiet  during  the  Lycosa's 
feast  points  to  the  possession  of  a  stomach 
that  knows  no  cravings. 

Then  with  what  are  they  sustained,  during 
their  seven  months'  upbringing  on  the  moth- 
er's back?  One  conceives  a  notion  of  exuda- 
tions supplied  by  the  bearer's  body,  in  which 
case  the  young  would  feed  on  their  mother, 
after  the  manner  of  parasitic  vermin,  and 
gradually  drain  her  strength. 

We  must  abandon  this  notion.  Never  are 
163 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

they  seen  to  put  their  mouths  to  the  skin  that 
should  be  a  sort  of  teat  to  them.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  Lycosa,  far  from  being  exhausted 
and  shrivelling,  keeps  perfectly  well  and 
plump.  She  has  the  same  pot-belly  when  she 
finishes  rearing  her  young  as  when  she  began. 
She  has  not  lost  weight:  far  from  it;  on  the 
contrary,  she  has  put  on  flesh:  she  has  gained 
the  wherewithal  to  beget  a  new  family  next 
summer,  one  as  numerous  as  to-day's. 

Once  more,  with  what  do  the  little  ones 
keep  up  their  strength?  We  do  not  like  to 
suggest  reserves  supplied  by  the  egg  as  recti- 
fying the  beastie's  expenditure  of  vital  force, 
especially  when  we  consider  that  those  re- 
serves, themselves  so  close  to  nothing,  must 
be  economized  in  view  of  the  silk,  a  material 
of  the  highest  importance,  of  which  a  plenti- 
ful use  will  be  made  presently.  There  must 
be  other  powers  at  play  in  the  tiny  animal's 
machinery. 

Total  abstinence  from  food  could  be  under- 
stood if  it  were  accompanied  by  inertia :  Im- 
mobihty  is  not  life.  But  the  young  Lycosae, 
although  usually  quiet  on  their  mother's  back, 
are  at  all  times  ready  for  exercise  and  for 
agile  swarming.  When  they  fall  from  the  ma- 
164 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Family 

ternal  perambulator,  they  briskly  pick  them- 
selves up,  briskly  scramble  up  a  leg  and  make 
their  way  to  the  top.     It  is  a  splendidly  nim- 
ble and  spirited  performance.     Besides,  once 
seated,  they  have  to  keep  a  firm  balance  in  the 
mass;  they  have  to  stretch  and  stiffen  their 
little  limbs  in  order  to  hang  on  to  their  neigh- 
bours.   As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  no  abso- 
lute rest  for  them.     Now  physiology  teaches 
us  that  not  a  fibre  works  without  some  ex- 
penditure of  energy.     The  animal,  which  can 
be  likened,  in  no  small  measure,  to  our  indus- 
trial machines,  demands,  on  the  one  hand,  the 
renovation  of  its  organism,  which  wears  out 
with  movement,  and,  on  the  other,  the  mainte- 
nance of  the  heat  transformed  into   action. 
We  can  compare  it  with  the  locomotive-en- 
gine.   As  the  iron  horse  performs  its  work,  it 
gradually  wears  out  its  pistons,  its  rods,  its 
wheels,  its  boiler-tubes,  all  of  which  have  to  be 
made  good  from  time  to  time.    The  founder 
and  the  smith  repair  It,  supply  It,  so  to  speak, 
with   'plastic   food,'   the    food   that  becomes 
embodied  with  the  whole  and  forms  part  of  it. 
But,  though  it  have  just  come  from  the  engine- 
shop,  it  is  still  Inert.     To  acquire  the  power 
of  movement,  It  must  receive  jfrom  the  stoker 
i6«; 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

a  supply  of  'energy-producing  food' ;  In 
other  words,  he  lights  a  few  shovelfuls  of  coal 
in  its  inside.  This  heat  will  produce  mechan- 
ical work. 

Even  so  with  the  beast.  As  nothing  is 
made'  from,  nothing,  the  egg  supplies  first 
the  materials  of  the  new-born  animal;  then  the 
plastic  food,  the  smith  of  living  creatures,  in- 
creases the  body,  up  to  a  certain  limit,  and  re- 
news it  as  it  wears  away.  The  stoker  works 
at  the  same  time,  without  stopping.  Fuel, 
the  source  of  energy,  makes  but  a  short  stay 
in  the  system,  where  it  is  consumed  and  fur- 
nishes heat,  whence  movement  is  derived. 
Life  is  a  fire-box.  Warmed  by  its  food,  the 
animal  machine  moves,  walks,  runs,  jumps, 
swims,  flies,  sets  its  locomotory  apparatus 
going  In  a  thousand  manners. 

To  return  to  the  young  Lycosae,  they  grow 
no  larger  until  the  period  of  their  emancipa- 
tion. I  find  them  at  the  age  of  seven  months 
the  same  as  when  I  saw  them  at  their  birth. 
The  egg  supplied  the  materials  necessary  for 
their  tiny  frames;  and,  as  the  loss  of  waste 
substance  is,  for  the  moment,  excessively  small, 
or  even  nil,  additional  plastic  food  Is  not 
needed  so  long  as  the  beastie  does  not  grow. 
i66 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Family 

In  this  respect,  the  prolonged  abstinence  pre- 
sents no  difficulty.  But  there  remains  the  ques- 
tion of  energy-producing  food,  which  is  indis- 
pensable, for  the  little  Lycosa  moves,  when 
necessary,  and  very  actively  at  that.  To  what 
shall  we  attribute  the  heat  expended  upon  ac- 
tion, when  the  animal  takes  absolutely  no 
nourishment  ? 

An  idea  suggests  itself.  We  say  to  our- 
selves that,  without  being  life,  a  machine  is 
something  more  than  matter,  for  man  has 
added  a  httle  of  his  mind  to  it.  Now  the  iron 
beast,  consuming  its  ration  of  coal,  is  really 
browsing  the  ancient  foliage  of  arborescent 
ferns  in  which  solar  energy  has  accumulated. 

Beasts  of  flesh  and  blood  act  no  otherwise. 
Whether  they  mutually  devour  one  another 
or  levy  tribute  on  the  plant,  they  invariably 
quicken  themselves  with  the  stimulant  of  the 
sun's  heat,  a  heat  stored  in  grass,  fruit,  seed 
and  those  which  feed  on  such.  The  sun,  the 
soul  of  the  universe,  is  the  supreme  dispenser 
of  energy. 

Instead  of  being  served  up  through  the  in- 
termediary of  food  and  passing  through  the 
Ignominious  circuit  of  gastric  chemistry, 
could  not  this  solar  energy  penetrate  the  ani- 
167 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

mal  directly  and  charge  it  with  activity,  even 
as  the  battery  charges  an  accumulator  with 
power?  Why  not  live  on  sun,  seeing  that, 
after  all,  we  find  naught  but  sun  in  the  fruits 
which  we  consume  ? 

Chemical  science,  that  bold  revolutionary, 
promises  to  provide  us  with  synthetic  food- 
stuffs. The  laboratory  and  the  factory  will 
take  the  place  of  the  farm.  Why  should  not 
physical  science  step  in  as  well?  It  would 
leave  the  preparation  of  plastic  food  to  the 
chemist's  retorts;  it  would  reserve  for  itself 
that  of  energy-producing  food,  which,  reduced 
to  its  exact  terms,  ceases  to  be  matter.  With 
the  aid  of  some  ingenious  apparatus,  it  would 
pump  into  us  our  daily  ration  of  solar  energy, 
to  be  later  expended  in  movement,  whereby 
the  machine  would  be  kept  going  without  the 
often  painful  assistance  of  the  stomach  and 
its  adjuncts.  What  a  delightful  world,  where 
one  would  lunch  off  a  ray  of  sunshine  I 

Is  it  a  dream,  or  the  anticipation  of  a  re- 
mote reality?  The  problem  is  one  of  the 
most  important  that  science  can  set  us.  Let 
us  first  hear  the  evidence  of  the  young  Lycosae 
regarding  its  possibilities. 

For  seven  months,  without  any  material 
i68 


The  Narbonne  Lycosa:  The  Family 

nourishment,  they  expend  strength  in  moving. 
To  wind  up  the  mechanism  of  their  muscles, 
they  recruit  themselves  direct  with  heat  and 
light.  During  the  time  when  she  was  drag- 
ging the  bag  of  eggs  behind  her,  the  mother, 
at  the  best  moments  of  the  day,  came  and  held 
up  her  pill  to  the  sun.  With  her  two  hind- 
legs,  she  lifted  it  out  of  the  ground,  into  the 
full  light;  slowly  she  turned  it  and  returned 
it,  so  that  every  side  might  receive  its  share  of 
the  vivifying  rays.  Well,  this  bath  of  life, 
which  awakened  the  germs,  is  now  prolonged 
to  keep  the  tender  babes  active. 

Daily,  if  the  sky  be  clear,  the  Lycosa,  car- 
rying her  young,  comes  up  from  the  burrow, 
leans  on  the  kerb  and  spends  long  hours  bask- 
ing in  the  sun.  Here,  on  their  mother's  back, 
the  youngsters  stretch  their  limbs  delightedly, 
saturate  themselves  with  heat,  take  in  reserves 
of  motor  power,  absorb  energy. 

They  are  motionless;  but,  if  I  only  blow 
upon  them,  they  stampede  as  nimbly  as  though 
a  hurricane  were  passing.  Hurriedly,  they  dis- 
perse; hurriedly,  they  reassemble:  a  proof 
that,  without  material  nourishment,  the  little 
animal  machine  Is  always  at  full  pressure, 
ready  to  work.  When  the  shade  comes, 
169 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

mother  and  sons  go  down  again,  surfeited  with 
solar  emanations.  The  feast  of  energy  at  the 
Sun  Tavern  is  finished  for  the  day.  It  is  re- 
peated in  the  same  way  daily,  if  the  weather 
be  mild,  until  the  hour  of  emancipation  comes, 
followed  by  the  first  mouthfuls  of  solid  food. 


170 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  NARBONNE  LYCOSA :  THE  CLIMBING- 
INSTINCT 

'T^HE  month  of  March  comes  to  an  end; 
-■-  and  the  departure  of  the  youngsters 
begins,  in  glorious  weather,  during  the  hottest 
hours  of  the  morning.  Laden  with  her  swarm- 
ing burden,  the  mother  Lycosa  is  outside  her 
burrow,  squatting  on  the  parapet  at  the  en- 
trance. She  lets  them  do  as  they  please;  as 
though  indifferent  to  what  is  happening,  she 
exhibits  neither  encouragement  nor  regret. 
Whoso  will  goes ;  whoso  will  remains  behind. 
First  these,  then  those,  according  as  they 
feel  themselves  duly  soaked  with  sunshine, 
the  little  ones  leave  the  mother  in  batches,  run 
about  for  a  moment  on  the  ground,  and  then 
quickly  reach  the  trellis-work  of  the  cage, 
which  they  climb  with  surprising  alacrity. 
They  pass  through  the  meshes,  they  clamber 
right  to  the  top  of  the  citadel.  All,  with  not 
one  exception,  make  for  the  heights,  instead 
of  roaming  on  the  ground,  as  might  be  reason- 
171 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

ably  be  expected  from  the  eminently  earthly 
habits  of  the  Lycosae ;  all  ascend  the  dome,  a 
strange  procedure  whereof  I  do  not  yet  guess 
the  object.  I  receive  a  hint  from  the  upright 
ring  that  finishes  the  top  of  the  cage.  The 
youngsters  hurry  to  it.  It  represents  the 
porch  of  their  gymnasium.  They  hang  out 
threads  across  the  opening ;  they  stretch  others 
from  the  ring  to  the  nearest  points  of  the  trel- 
lis-work. On  these  foot-bridges  they  perform 
slack-rope  exercises  amid  endless  comings  and 
goings.  The  tiny  legs  open  out  from  time  to 
time  and  straddle  as  though  to  reach  the  m.ost 
distant  points.  I  begin  to  realize  that  they 
are  acrobats  aiming  at  loftier  heights  than 
those  of  the  dome. 

I  top  the  trellis  with  a  branch  that  doubles 
the  attainable  height.  The  bustling  crowd 
hastily  scrambles  up  it,  reaches  the  tip  of  the 
topmost  twigs  and  thence  sends  out  threads 
that  attach  themselves  to  every  surrounding 
object.  These  form  so  many  suspension- 
bridges;  and  my  beasties  nimbly  run  along 
them,  incessantly  passing  to  and  fro.  One 
would  say  that  they  wished  to  climb  higher 
still.    I  will  endeavour  to  satisfy  their  desires. 

I  take  a  nine-foot  reed,  with  tiny  branches 
173 


Narbonne  Lycosa:  Climbing- Instinct 

spreading  right  up  to  the  top,  and  place  it 
above  the  cage.  The  little  Lycosae  clamber 
to  the  very  summit.  Here,  longer  threads  are 
produced  from  the  rope-yard,  and  are  now 
left  to  float,  anon  converted  into  bridges  by 
the  mere  contact  of  the  free  end  with  the 
neighbouring  supports.  The  rope-dancers  em- 
bark upon  them  and  form  garlands  which  the 
least  breath  of  air  swings  daintily.  The 
thread  is  invisible  when  it  does  not  come  be- 
tween the  eyes  and  the  sun ;  and  the  whole  sug- 
gests rows  of  Gnats  dancing  an  aerial  ballet. 

Then,  suddenly,  teased  by  the  air-currents, 
the  delicate  mooring  breaks  and  flies  through 
space.  Behold  the  emigrants  off  and  away, 
clinging  to  their  thread.  If  the  wind  be  fa- 
vourable, they  can  land  at  great  distances. 
Their  departure  Is  thus  continued  for  a  week 
or  two,  in  bands  more  or  less  numerous,  ac- 
cording to  the  temperature  and  the  brightness 
of  the  day.  If  the  sky  be  overcast,  none 
dreams  of  leaving.  The  travellers  need  the 
kisses  of  the  sun,  which  give  energy  and 
vigour. 

At  last,  the  whole  family  has  disappeared, 
carried  afar  by  its  flying-ropes.  The  mother 
remains  alone.  The  loss  of  her  offspring 
173 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

hardly  seems  to  distress  her.  She  retains  her 
usual  colour  and  plumpness,  which  is  a  sign 
that  the  maternal  exertions  have  not  been  too 
much  for  her, 

I  also  notice  an  increased  fervour  in  the 
chase.  While  burdened  with  her  family  she 
was  remarkably  abstemious,  accepting  only 
with  great  reserve  the  game  placed  at  her 
disposal.  The  coldness  of  the  season  may 
have  militated  against  copious  refections;  per- 
haps, also,  the  weight  of  the  little  ones  ham- 
pered her  movements  and  made  her  more  dis- 
creet In  attacking  the  prey. 

To-day,  cheered  by  the  fine  weather  and 
able  to  move  freely,  she  hurries  up  from  her 
lair  each  time  I  set  a  tit-bit  to  her  liking,  buzz- 
ing at  the  entrance  of  her  burrow;  she  comes 
and  takes  from  my  fingers  the  savoury  Locust, 
the  portly  Anoxia^;  and  this  performance  Is 
repeated  daily,  whenever  I  have  the  leisure 
to  devote  to  It.  After  a  frugal  winter,  the 
time  has  come  for  plentiful  repasts. 

This  appetite  tells  us  that  the  animal  Is  not 

at  the  point  of  death;  one  does  not  feast  in 

this  way  with   a   played-out   stomach.      My 

boarders  are  entering  in  full  vigour  upon  their 

*A  species  of  Beetle. — Translator's  Note. 

174 


Narbonne  Lycosa:  Climbing-Instinct 

fourth  year.  In  the  winter,  In  the  fields,  1 
used  to  find  large  mothers,  carting  their 
young,  and  others  not  much  more  than  half 
their  size.  The  whole  series,  therefore,  repre- 
sented three  generations.  And  now,  In  my 
earthenware  pans,  after  the  departure  of  the 
family,  the  old  matrons  still  carry  on  and  con- 
tinue as  strong  as  ever.  Every  outward  ap- 
pearance tells  us  that,  after  becoming  great- 
grandmothers,  they  still  keep  themselves  fit 
for  propagating  their  species. 

The  facts  correspond  with  these  anticipa- 
tions. When  September  returns,  my  captives 
are  dragging  a  bag  as  bulky  as  that  of  last 
year.  For  a  long  time,  even  when  the  eggs  of 
the  others  have  been  hatched  for  some  weeks 
past,  the  mothers  come  dally  to  the  threshold 
of  the  burrow  and  hold  out  their  wallets  for 
Incubation  by  the  sun.  Their  perseverance 
is  not  rewarded :  nothing  issues  from  the  satin 
purse;  nothing  stirs  within.  Why?  Because, 
In  the  prison  of  my  cages,  the  eggs  have  had 
no  father.  Tired  of  waiting  and  at  last  recog- 
nizing the  barrenness  of  their  produce,  they 
push  the  bag  of  eggs  outside  the  burrow  and 
trouble  about  it  no  more.  At  the  return  of 
spring,  by  which  time  the  family,  if  developed 
175 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

according  to  rule,  would  have  been  emanci- 
pated, they  die.  The  mighty  Spider  of  the 
waste-lands,  therefore,  attains  to  an  even  more 
patriarchal  age  than  her  neighbour  the  Sacred 
Beetle^;  she  lives  for  five  years  at  the  very 
least. 

Let  us  leave  the  mothers  to  their  business 
and  return  to  the  youngsters.  It  is  not  with- 
out a  certain  surprise  that  we  see  the  little 
Lycosae,  at  the  first  moment  of  their  emanci- 
pation, hasten  to  ascend  the  heights.  Destined 
to  live  on  the  ground,  amidst  the  short  grass, 
and  afterwards  to  settle  in  their  permanent 
abode,  a  pit,  they  start  by  being  enthusiastic 
acrobats.  Before  descending  to  the  low  levels, 
their  normal  dwelling-place,  they  affect  lofty 
altitudes. 

To  rise  higher  and  ever  higher  is  their  first 
need.  I  have  not,  it  seems,  exhausted  the 
limit  of  their  climbing-instinct  even  with  a 
nine-foot  pole,  suitably  furnished  with 
branches  to  facilitate  the  escalade.  Those 
who  have  eagerly  reached  the  very  top  wave 

^Cf.  Insect  Life,  by  J.  H.  Fabre,  translated  by  the  au- 
thor of  Mademoiselle  Mori:  chaps,  i  and  ii;  The  Life 
and  Love  of  the  Insect,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre,  translated 
by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattes :  chaps,  i  to  iv. — ■ 
Translator's  Note. 

176 


Narbonne  Lycosa:  Climbing-Instinct 

their  legs,  fumble  in  space  as  though  for  yet 
higher  stalks.  It  behoves  us  to  begin  again 
and  under  better  conditions. 

Although  the  Narbonne  Lycosa,  with  her 
temporary  yearning  for  the  heights,  is  more 
interesting  than  other  Spiders,  by  reason  of 
the  fact  that  her  usual  habitat  is  under- 
ground, she  is  not  so  striking  at  swarming- 
time,  because  the  youngsters,  instead  of  all  mi- 
grating at  once,  leave  the  mother  at  different 
periods  and  in  small  batches.  The  sight  will 
be  a  finer  one  with  the  common  Garden  or 
Cross  Spider,  the  Diadem  Epeira  (Epeira 
diadema,  LiN. ) ,  decorated  with  three  white 
crosses  on  her  back. 

She  lays  her  eggs  in  November  and  dies 
with  the  first  cold  snap.  She  is  denied  the  Ly- 
cosa's  longevity.  She  leaves  the  natal  wallet 
early  one  spring,  and  never  sees  the  following 
spring.  This  wallet,  which  contains  the  eggs, 
has  none  of  the  ingenious  structure  which  we 
admired  In  the  Banded  and  in  the  Silky 
Epeira.  No  longer  do  we  see  a  graceful  bal- 
loon-shape, nor  yet  a  paraboloid  with  a  starry 
base;  no  longer  a  tough,  waterproof  satin 
stuff;  no  longer  a  swan's-down  resembling  a 
fleecy  russet  cloud;  no  longer  an  inner  keg  in 
177 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

which  the  eggs  are  packed.  The  art  of  stout 
fabrics  and  of  walls  within  walls  is  unknown 
here. 

The  work  of  the  Cross  Spider  is  a  pill  of 
white  silk,  wrought  into  a  yielding  felt, 
through  which  the  new-born  Spiders  will  eas- 
ily work  their  way,  without  the  aid  of  the 
mother,  long  since  dead,  and  without  having 
to  rely  upon  its  bursting  at  the  given  hour.  It 
is  about  the  size  of  a  damson. 

We  can  judge  the  method  of  manufacture 
from  the  structure.  Like  the  Lycosa,  whom 
we  saw,  in  Chapter  III,  at  work  in  one  of  my 
earthenware  pans,  the  Cross  Spider,  on  the 
support  supplied  by  a  few  threads  stretched 
between  the  nearest  objects,  begins  by  making 
a  shallow  saucer  of  sufficient  thickness  to  dis- 
pense with  subsequent  corrections.  The  proc- 
ess is  easily  guessed.  The  tip  of  the  abdomen 
goes  up  and  down,  down  and  up,  with  an  even 
beat,  while  the  worker  shifts  her  place  a  little. 
Each  time,  the  spinnerets  add  a  bit  of  thread 
to  the  carpet  already  made. 

When  the  requisite  thickness  is  obtained,  the 
mother  empties  her  ovaries,  in  one  continuous 
flow,  into  the  centre  of  the  bowl.  Glued  to- 
gether by  their  inherent  moisture,  the  eggs, 
178 


Narbonne  Lycosa:  Climbing-Instinct 

of  a  handsome  orange-yellow,  form  a  ball- 
shaped  heap.  The  work  of  the  spinnerets  is 
resumed.  The  ball  of  germs  is  covered  with 
a  silk  cap,  fashioned  in  the  same  way  as  the 
saucer.  The  two  halves  of  the  work  are  so 
well  joined  that  the  whole  constitutes  an  un- 
broken sphere. 

The  Banded  Epeira  and  the  Silky  Epeira, 
those  experts  in  the  manufacture  of  rainproof 
textures,  lay  their  eggs  high  up,  on  brush- 
wood and  bramble,  without  shelter  of  any 
kind.  The  thick  material  of  the  wallets  is 
enough  to  protect  the  eggs  from  the  inclemen- 
cies of  the  winter,  especially  from  damp.  The 
Diadem  Epeira,  or  Cross  Spider,  needs  a 
cranny  for  hers,  which  is  contained  in  a  non- 
waterproof  felt.  In  a  heap  of  stones,  well  ex- 
posed to  the  sun,  she  will  choose  a  large  slab, 
to  serve  as  a  roof.  She  lodges  her  pill  un- 
derneath it,  in  the  company  of  the  hibernating 
Snail. 

More  often  still,  she  prefers  the  thick  tangle 
of  some  dwarf  shrub,  standing  eight  or  nine 
inches  high,  and  retaining  its  leaves  in  winter. 
In  the  absence  of  anything  better,  a  tuft  of 
grass  answers  the  purpose.  Whatever  the 
hiding-place,  the  bag  of  eggs  is  always  near 

I7Q 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  ground,  tucked  away  as  well  as  may  be 
amid  the  surrounding  twigs. 

Save  in  the  case  of  the  roof  supplied  by  a 
large  stone,  we  see  that  the  site  selected  hardly 
satisfies  proper  hygienic  needs.  The  Epeira 
seems  to  realize  this  fact.  By  way  of  an  addi- 
tional protection,  even  under  a  stone,  she 
never  fails  to  make  a  thatched  roof  for  her 
eggs.  She  builds  them  a  covering  with  bits 
of  fine,  dry  grass,  joined  together  with  a  little 
silk.  The  abode  of  the  eggs  becomes  a  straw 
wigwam. 

Good  luck  procures  me  two  Cross  Spiders' 
nests  on  the  edge  of  one  of  the  paths  in  the 
enclosure,  among  some  tufts  of  ground- 
cypress,  or  lavender-cotton.  This  is  just  what 
I  wanted  for  my  plans.  The  find  is  all  the 
more  valuable  as  the  period  of  the  exodus  is 
near  at  hand. 

I  prepare  two  lengths  of  bamboo,  standing 
about  fifteen  feet  high  and  clustered  with  lit- 
tle twigs  from  top  to  bottom.  I  plant  one  of 
them  straight  up  in  the  tuft,  beside  the  first 
nest.  I  clear  the  surrounding  ground,  because 
the  bushy  vegetation  might  easily,  thanks  to 
threads  carried  by  the  wind,  divert  the  emi- 
grants from  the  road  which  I  have  laid  out 
i8o 


Narbonne  Lycosa:  Climbing-Instinct 

for  them.  The  other  bamboo  I  set  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  yard,  all  by  Itself,  some  few 
steps  from  any  outstanding  object.  The  sec- 
ond nest  is  removed  as  it  is,  shrub  and  all, 
and  placed  at  the  bottom  of  the  tall,  ragged 
distaff. 

The  events  expected  are  not  long  in  com- 
ing. In  the  first  fortnight  in  May,  a  little 
earlier  in  one  case,  a  little  later  In  the  other, 
the  two  families,  each  presented  with  a  bam- 
boo climbing-pole,  leave  their  respective  wal- 
lets. There  is  nothing  remarkable  about  the 
mode  of  egress.  The  precincts  to  be  crossed 
consist  of  a  very  slack  net-work,  through 
which  the  outcomers  wriggle :  weak  little 
orange-yellow  beasties,  with  a  triangular  black 
patch  upon  their  sterns.  One  morning  is  long 
enough  for  the  whole  family  to  make  Its  ap- 
pearance. 

By  degrees,  the  emancipated  youngsters 
climb  the  nearest  twigs,  clamber  to  the  top, 
and  spread  a  few  threads.  Soon,  they  gather 
in  a  compact,  ball-shaped  cluster,  the  size  of 
a  walnut.  They  remain  motionless.  With 
their  heads  plunged  into  the  heap  and  their 
sterns  projecting,  they  doze  gently,  mellowing 
under  the  kisses  of  the  sun.  Rich  in  the  posses- 
i8i 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

sion  of  a  thread  in  their  belly  as  their  sole 
inheritance,  they  prepare  to  disperse  over  the 
wide  world. 

Let  us  create  a  disturbance  among  the  glob- 
ular group  by  stirring  it  with  a  straw.  All 
wake  up  at  once.  The  cluster  softly  dilates 
and  spreads,  as  though  set  in  motion  by  some 
centrifugal  force;  it  becomes  a  transparent 
orb  wherein  thousands  and  thousands  of  tiny 
legs  quiver  and  shake,  while  threads  are  ex- 
tended along  the  way  to  be  followed.  The 
whole  work  resolves  itself  into  a  delicate  veil 
which  swallows  up  the  scattered  family.  We 
then  see  an  exquisite  nebula  against  whose 
opalescent  tapestry  the  tiny  animals  gleam  like 
twinkling  orange  stars. 

This  straggling  state,  though  It  last  for 
hours,  is  but  temporary.  If  the  air  grow 
cooler,  if  rain  threaten,  the  spherical  group 
reforms  at  once.  This  is  a  protective  meas- 
ure. On  the  morning  after  a  shower,  I  find 
the  families  on  either  bamboo  in  as  good 
condition  as  on  the  day  before.  The  silk 
veil  and  the  pill  formation  have  sheltered 
them  well  enough  from  the  downpour. 
Even  so  do  Sheep,  when  caught  in  a 
storm  in  the  pastures,  gather  close,  huddle 
182 


Narbonne  Lycosa:  Climbing-Instinct 

together  and  make  a  common  rampart  of  their 
backs. 

The  assembly  into  a  ball-shaped  mass  is 
also  the  rule  in  calm,  bright  weather,  after 
the  morning's  exertions.  In  the  afternoon,  the 
climbers  collect  at  a  higher  point,  where  they 
weave  a  wide,  conical  tent,  with  the  end  of  a 
shoot  for  its  top,  and,  gathered  into  a  com- 
pact group,  spend  the  night  there.  Next  day, 
when  the  heat  returns,  the  ascent  is  resumed  in 
long  files,  following  the  shrouds  which  a  few 
pioneers  have  rigged  and  which  those  who 
come  after  elaborate  with  their  own  work. 

Assembled  nightly  into  a  globular  troop 
and  sheltered  under  a  fresh  tent  for  three  or 
four  days,  each  morning,  before  the  sun  grows 
too  hot,  my  little  emigrants  thus  raise  them- 
selves, stage  by  stage,  on  both  bamboos,  until 
they  reach  the  summit,  at  fifteen  feet  above 
the  ground.  The  climb  comes  to  an  end  for 
lack  of  foothold. 

Under  normal  conditions,  the  ascent  would 
be  shorter.  The  young  Spiders  have  at  their 
disposal  the  bushes,  the  brushwood,  providing 
supports  on  every  side  for  the  threads  wafted 
hither  and  thither  by  the  eddying  air-currents. 
With  these  rope-bridges  flung  across  space,  the 
183 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

dispersal  presents  no  difficulties.  Each  emi- 
grant leaves  at  his  own  good  time  and  travels 
as  suits  him  best. 

My  devices  have  changed  these  conditions 
somewhat.  My  two  bristling  poles  stand  at  a 
distance  from  the  surrounding  shrubs,  espe- 
cially the  one  which  I  planted  in  the  middle 
of  the  yard.  Bridges  are  out  of  the  question, 
for  the  threads  flung  into  the  air  are  not  long 
enough.  And  so  the  acrobats,  eager  to  get 
away,  keep  on  climbing,  never  come  down 
again,  are  impelled  to  seek  in  a  higher  posi- 
tion what  they  have  failed  to  find  in  a  lower. 
The  top  of  my  two  bamboos  probably  fails  to 
represent  the  limit  of  what  my  keen  climbers 
are  capable  of  achieving. 

We  shall  see,  in  a  moment,  the  object  of 
this  climbing-propensity,  which  is  a  sufficiently 
remarkable  instinct  in  the  Garden  Spiders, 
who  have  as  their  domain  the  low-growing 
brushwood  wherein  the  nets  are  spread;  it  be- 
comes a  still  more  remarkable  instinct  in  the 
Lycosa,  who,  except  at  the  moment  when  she 
leaves  her  mother's  back,  never  quits  the 
ground,  and  yet,  in  the  early  hours  of  her  life, 
shows  herself  as  ardent  a  wooer  of  high  places 
as  the  young  Garden  Spiders. 
184 


Narbonne  Lycosa:  Climbing-Instinct 

Let  us  consider  the  Lycosa  in  particular. 
In  her,  at  the  moment  of  the  exodus,  a  sudden 
instinct  arises,  to  disappear,  as  promptly  and 
for  ever,  a  few  hours  later.  This  is  the 
climbing-instinct,  which  is  unknown  to  the 
adult  and  soon  forgotten  by  the  emancipated 
youngling,  doomed  to  wander  homeless,  for 
many  a  long  day,  upon  the  ground.  Neither 
of  them  dreams  of  climbing  to  the  top  of  a 
grass-stalk.  The  full-grown  Spider  hunts 
trapper- fashion,  ambushed  in  her  tower;  the 
young  one  hunts  afoot  through  the  scrubby 
grass.  In  both  cases  there  is  no  web  and 
therefore  no  need  for  lofty  contact-points. 
They  are  not  allowed  to  quit  the  ground  and 
climb  the  heights. 

Yet  here  we  have  the  young  Lycosa,  wish- 
ing to  leave  the  maternal  abode  and  to  travel 
far  afield  by  the  easiest  and  swiftest  methods, 
suddenly  becoming  an  enthusiastic  climber. 
Impetuously  she  scales  the  wire  trellis  of  the 
cage  where  she  was  born;  hurriedly  she  clam- 
bers to  the  top  of  the  tall  mast  which  I  have 
prepared  for  her.  In  the  same  way,  she 
would  make  for  the  summit  of  the  bushes  in 
her  waste-land. 

We  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  object.  From 
185 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

on  high,  finding  a  wide  space  beneath  her,  she 
sends  a  thread  floating.  It  is  caught  by  the 
wind,  and  carries  her  hanging  to  it.  We  have 
our  aeroplanes;  she  too  possesses  her  flying- 
machine.  Once  the  journey  is  accomplished, 
naught  remains  of  this  ingenious  business. 
The  climbing-instinct  comes  suddenly,  at  the 
hour  of  need,  and  no  less  suddenly  vanishes. 


i8S 


CHAPTER  Vir 

THE  spiders'  exodus 

CEEDS,  when  ripened  in  the  fruit,  are  dis- 
^  seminated,  that  is  to  say,  scattered  on 
the  surface  of  the  ground,  to  sprout  in  spots 
as  yet  unoccupied,  and  fill  the  expanses  that 
realize  favourable  conditions. 

Amid  the  wayside  rubbish  grows  one  of  the 
gourd  family,  Ecbalium  elaterium,  commonly 
called  the  squirting  cucumber,  whose  fruit — a 
rough  and  extremely  bitter  little  cucumber — 
is  the  size  of  a  date.  When  ripe,  the  fleshy 
core  resolves  into  a  liquid  in  which  float  the 
seeds.  Compressed  by  the  elastic  rind  of  the 
fruit,  this  liquid  bears  upon  the  base  of  the 
footstalk,  which  Is  gradually  forced  out,  yields 
like  a  stopper,  breaks  off  and  leaves  an  orifice 
through  which  a  stream  of  seeds  and  fluid 
pulp  is  suddenly  ejected.  If,  with  a  novice 
hand,  under  a  scorching  sun,  you  shake 
the  plant,  laden  with  yellow  fruit,  you 
are  bound  to  be  somewhat  startled  when 
you    hear    a    noise    among    the    leaves    and 

J87 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

receive    the    cucumber's    grapeshot    in    your 
face. 

The  fruit  of  the  garden  balsam,  when  ripe, 
splits,  at  the  least  touch,  into  five  fleshy  valves, 
which  curl  up  and  shoot  their  seeds  to  a  dis- 
tance. The  botanical  name  of  Impatiens  given 
to  the  balsam  alludes  to  this  sudden  dehiscence 
of  the  capsules,  which  cannot  endure  contact 
without  bursting. 

In  the  damp  and  shady  places  of  the  woods 
there  exists  a  plant  of  the  same  family  which, 
for  similar  reasons,  bears  the  even  more  ex- 
pressive name  of  Impatiens  noli-me-tangere, 
or  touch-me-not. 

The  capsule  of  the  pansy  expands  into  three 
valves,  each  scooped  out  like  a  boat  and  laden 
in  the  middle  with  two  rows  of  seeds.  When 
these  valves  dry  the  edges  shrivel  up,  press 
upon  the  grains  and  eject  them. 

Light  seeds,  especially  those  of  the  order 
of  Composite,  have  aeronautic  apparatus — - 
tufts,  plumes,  fly-wheels — which  keep  them  up 
in  the  air  and  enable  them  to  take  distant  voy- 
ages. In  ths  way,  at  the  least  breath,  the  seeds 
of  the  dandelion,  surmounted  by  a  tuft  of 
feathers,  fly  from  their  dry  receptacle  and 
waft  gently  in  the  air. 
i88 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

Next  to  the  tuft,  the  wing  is  the  most  satis- 
factory contrivance  for  dissemination  by  wind. 
Thanks  to  their  membranous  edge,  which  gives 
them  the  appearance  of  thin  scales,  the  seeds 
of  the  yellow  wall-flower  reach  high  cornices 
of  buildings,  clefts  of  inaccessible  rocks,  cran- 
nies in  old  walls,  and  sprout  in  the  remnant  of 
mould  bequeathed  by  the  mosses  that  were 
there  before  them. 

The  samaras,  or  keys,  of  the  elm,  formed 
of  a  broad,  light  fan  with  the  seed  cased  in  its 
centre;  those  of  the  maple,  joined  in  pairs  and 
resembling  the  unfurled  wings  of  a  bird ;  those 
of  the  ash,  carved  like  the  blade  of  an  oar, 
perform  the  most  distant  journeys  when 
driven  before  the  storm. 

Like  the  plant,  the  Insect  also  sometimes 
possesses  travelling-apparatus,  means  of  dis- 
semination that  allow  large  families  to 
disperse  quickly  over  the  country,  so 
that  each  member  may  have  his  place  in 
the  sun  without  injuring  his  neighbour;  and 
these  apparatus,  these  methods  vie  in 
Ingenuity  with  the  elm's  samara,  the  dande- 
lion-plume and  the  catapult  of  the  squirting 
cucumber. 

Let  us  consider,  In  particular,  the  Epeirae, 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

those  magnificent  Spiders  who,  to  catch  their 
prey,  stretch,  between  one  bush  and  the  next, 
great  vertical  sheets  of  meshes,  resembling 
those  of  the  fowler.  The  most  remarkable  in 
my  district  is  the  Banded  Epeira  {Epeira  fas- 
ciata,  Walck.),  so  prettily  belted  with  yel- 
low, black  and  silvery  white.  Her  nest,  a  mar- 
vel of  gracefulness,  is  a  satin  bag,  shaped  like 
a  tiny  pear.  Its  neck  ends  in  a  concave  mouth- 
piece closed  with  a  lid,  also  of  satin.  Brown 
ribbons,  in  fanciful  meridian  waves,  adorn  the 
object  from  pole  to  pole. 

Open  the  nest.  We  have  seen,  in  an  earlier 
chapter, -"^  what  we  find  there;  let  us  retell  the 
story.  Under  the  outer  wrapper,  which  is  as 
stout  as  our  woven  stuffs  and,  moreover,  per- 
fectly waterproof,  is  a  russet  eiderdown  of  ex- 
quisite delicacy,  a  silky  fluff  resembling  driven 
smoke.  Nowhere  does  mother-love  prepare  a 
softer  bed. 

In  the  middle  of  this  downy  mass  hangs  a 
fine,  silk,  thimble-shaped  purse,  closed  with  a 
movable  lid.  This  contains  the  eggs,  of  a 
pretty  orange-yellow  and  about  five  hundred 
in  number. 

All  things  considered,  is  not  this  charming 
'Chapter  II. — Translator's  Note. 
190 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

edifice  an  animal  fruit,  a  germ-casket,  a  cap- 
sule to  be  compared  with  that  of  the  plants? 
Only,  the  Epeira's  wallet,  Instead  of  seeds, 
holds  eggs.  The  difference  Is  more  ap- 
parent than  real,  for  egg  and  grain  are 
one. 

How  will  this  living  fruit,  ripening  in  the 
heat  beloved  of  the  Cicadae,  manage  to  burst? 
How,  above  all,  will  dissemination  take  place? 
They  are  there  in  their  hundreds.  They  must 
separate,  go  far  away.  Isolate  themselves  In 
a  spot  where  there  Is  not  too  much  fear  of 
competition  among  neighbours.  How  will 
they  set  to  work  to  achieve  this  distant  exodus, 
weaklings  that  they  are,  taking  such  very  tiny 
steps  ? 

I  receive  the  first  answer  from  another  and 
much  earlier  Epeira,  whose  family  I  find,  at 
the  beginning  of  May,  on  a  yucca  in  the  enclo- 
sure. The  plant  blossomed  last  year.  The 
branching  flower-stem,  some  three  feet  high, 
still  stands  erect,  though  withered.  On  the 
green  leaves,  shaped  like  a  sword-blade,  swarm 
two  newly-hatched  families.  The  wee  beastles 
are  a  dull  yellow,  with  a  triangular  black 
patch  upon  their  stern.  Later  on,  three  white 
crosses,  ornamenting  the  back,  will  tell  me  that 

191 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

my  find  corresponds  with  the  Cross  or  Diadem 
Spider  (Epeira  diadema,  Walck.). 

When  the  sun  reaches  this  part  of  the  en- 
closure, one  of  the  two  groups  falls  into  a 
great  state  of  flutter.  Nimble  acrobats  that 
they  are,  the  little  Spiders  scramble  up,  one 
after  the  other,  and  reach  the  top  of  the  stem. 
Here,  marches  and  countermarches,  tumult 
and  confusion  reign,  for  there  is  a  slight 
breeze  which  throws  the  troop  into  disorder. 
I  see  no  connected  manoeuvres.  From  the  top 
of  the  stalk  they  set  out  at  every  moment, 
one  by  one;  they  dart  off  suddenly;  they  fly 
away,  so  to  speak.  It  is  as  though  they  had 
the  wings  of  a  Gnat. 

Forthwith  they  disappear  from  view.  Noth- 
ing that  my  eyes  can  see  explains  this  strange 
flight;  for  precise  observation  is  impossible 
amid  the  disturbing  influences  out  of  doors. 
What  is  wanted  is  a  peaceful  atmosphere  and 
the  quiet  of  my  study. 

I  gather  the  family  In  a  large  box,  which  I 
close  at  once,  and  instal  it  in  the  animals' 
laboratory,  on  a  small  table,  two  steps  from 
the  open  window.  Apprised  by  what  I  have 
just  seen  of  their  propensity  to  resort  to  the 
heights,  I  give  my  subjects  a  bundle  of  twigs, 
192 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

eighteen  inches  tall,  as  a  climbing-pole.  The 
whole  band  hurriedly  clambers  up  and  reaches 
the  top.  In  a  few  moments  there  is  not  one 
lacking  in  the  group  on  high.  The  future 
will  tell  us  the  reason  of  this  assemblage  on 
the  projecting  tips  of  the  twigs. 

The  little  Spiders  are  now  spinning  here 
and  there  at  random:  they  go  up,  go  down, 
come  up  again.  Thus  is  woven  a  light  veil  of 
divergent  threads,  a  many-cornered  web  with 
the  end  of  the  branch  for  its  summit  and  the 
edge  of  the  table  for  its  base,  some  eighteen 
inches  wide.  This  veil  is  the  drill-ground,  the 
work-yard  where  the  preparations  for  de- 
parture are  made. 

Here  hasten  the  humble  little  creatures, 
running  indefatigably  to  and  fro.  When  the 
sun  shines  upon  them;  they  become  gleaming 
specks,  and  form  upon  the  milky  background 
of  the  veil  a  sort  of  constellation,  a  reflex  of 
those  remote  points  in  the  sky  where  the  tele- 
scope shows  us  endless  galaxies  of  stars.  The 
immeasurably  small  and  the  immeasurably 
large  are  alike  in  appearance.  It  is  all  a  mat- 
ter of  distance. 

But  the  living  nebula  is  not  composed  of 
fixed  stars;  on  the  contrary,  Its  specks  are  In 
193 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

continual  movement.  The  young  Spiders 
never  cease  shifting  their  position  on  the  web. 
Many  let  themselves  drop,  hanging  by  a 
length  of  thread  which  the  faller's  weight 
draws  from  the  spinnerets.  Then  quickly  they 
climb  up  again  by  the  same  thread,  which  they 
wind  gradually  into  a  skein  and  lengthen  by 
successive  falls.  Others  confine  themselves  to 
running  about  the  web  and  also  give  me  the 
impression  of  working  at  a  bundle  of  ropes. 

The  thread,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  does  not 
flow  from  the  spinneret;  it  is  drawn  thence 
with  a  certain  effort.  It  is  a  case  of  extrac- 
tion, not  emission.  To  obtain  her  slender 
cord,  the  Spider  has  to  move  about  and  haul, 
either  by  falling  or  by  walking,  even  as  the 
rope-maker  steps  backwards  when  working 
his  hemp.  The  activity  now  displayed  on  the 
drill-ground  is  a  preparation  for  the  approach- 
ing dispersal.    The  travellers  are  packing  up 

Soon  we  see  a  few  Spiders  trotting  briskly 
between  the  table  and  the  open  window.  They 
are  running  in  mid-air.  But  on  what?  If  the 
light  fall  favourably,  I  manage  to  see,  at  mo- 
ments, behind  the  tiny  animal,  a  thread  resem- 
bling a  ray  of  light,  which  appears  for  an  in- 
stant, gleams  and  disappears.    Behind,  there- 

194 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

fore,  there  Is  a  mooring,  only  just  perceptible, 
if  you  look  very  carefully;  but  In  front, 
towards  the  window,  there  is  nothing  to  be 
seen  at  all. 

In  vain  I  examine  above,  below,  at  the 
side;  in  vain  I  vary  the  direction  of  the  eye: 
I  can  distinguish  no  support  for  the  little  crea- 
ture to  walk  upon.  One  would  think  that  the 
beastle  were  paddling  in  space.  It  suggests  the 
idea  of  a  small  bird,  tied  by  the  leg  with  a 
thread  and  making  a  flying  rush  forwards. 

But,  in  this  case,  appearances  are  deceptive : 
flight  is  impossible;  the  Spider  must  necessa- 
rily have  a  bridge  whereby  to  cross  the  inter- 
vening space.  This  bridge,  which  I  cannot 
see,  I  can  at  least  destroy.  I  cleave  the  air 
with  a  ruler  in  front  of  the  Spider  making  for 
the  window.  That  is  quite  enough:  the  tiny 
animal  at  once  ceases  to  go  forward  and  falls. 
The  invisible  foot-plank  is  broken.  My  son, 
young  Paul,  who  is  helping  me,  Is  astounded 
at  this  wavfi-  of  the  magic  wand,  for  not  even 
he,  with  his  fresh,  young  eyes,  is  able  to  see  a 
support  ahead  for  the  Spiderling  to  move 
along. 

In  the  rear,  on  the  other  hand,  a  thread  is 
visible.     The  difference  Is  easily  explained. 

195 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Every  Spider,  as  she  goes,  at  the  same  time 
spins  a  safety-cord  which  will  guard  the  rope- 
walker  against  the  risk  of  an  always  possible 
fall.  In  the  rear,  therefore,  the  thread  is  of 
double  thickness  and  can  be  seen,  whereas  in 
front,  it  is  still  single  and  hardly  perceptible 
to  the  eye. 

Obviously,  this  invisible  foot-bridge  is  not 
flung  out  by  the  animal :  it  is  carried  and  un- 
rolled by  a  gust  of  air.  The  Epeira,  supplied 
with  this  line,  lets  it  float  freely;  and  the  wind, 
however  softly  blowing,  bears  it  along  and 
unwinds  it.  Even  so  is  the  smoke  from  the 
bowl  of  a  pipe  whirled  up  in  the  air. 

This  floating  thread  has  but  to  touch  any 
object  in  the  neighbourhood  and  it  will  re- 
main fixed  to  it.  The  suspension-bridge  Is 
thrown;  and  the  Spider  can  set  out.  The 
South-American  Indians  are  said  to  cross  the 
abysses  of  the  Cordilleras  in  travelling-cradles 
made  of  twisted  creepers;  the  little  Spider 
passes  through  space  on  the  Invisible  and  the 
imponderable. 

But  to  carry  the  end  of  the  floating  thread 
elsewhither  a  draught  is  needed.  At  this  mo- 
ment, the  draught  exists  between  the  door  of 
my  study  and  the  window,  both  of  which  are 
196 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

open.  It  is  so  slight  that  I  do  not  feel  it;  I 
only  know  of  it  by  the  smoke  from  my  pipe, 
curling  softly  in  that  direction.  Cold  air 
enters  from  without  through  the  door;  warm 
air  escapes  from  the  room  through  the  win- 
dow. This  is  the  draught  that  carries  the 
threads  with  it  and  enables  the  Spiders  to  em- 
bark upon  their  journey. 

I  get  rid  of  it  by  closing  both  apertures  and 
I  break  off  any  communication  by  passing 
my  ruler  between  the  window  and  the  table. 
Henceforth,  in  the  motionless  atmosphere, 
there  are  no  departures.  The  current  of  air 
is  missing,  the  skeins  are  not  unwound  and  mi- 
gration becomes  impossible. 

It  is  soon  resumed,  but  in  a  direction  where- 
of I  never  dreamt.  The  hot  sun  is  beating  on 
a  certain  part  of  the  floor.  At  this  spot,  which 
is  warmer  than  the  rest,  a  column  of  lighter, 
ascending  air  is  generated.  If  this  column 
catch  the  threads,  my  Spiders  ought  to  rise  to 
the  ceiling  of  the  room. 

The  curious  ascent  does,  in  fact,  take  place. 
Unfortunately,  my  troop,  which  has  been 
greatly  reduced  by  the  number  of  departures 
through  the  window,  does  not  lend  itself  to 
prolonged  experiment.  We  must  begin  again. 
197 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

The  next  morning,  on  the  same  yucca,  I 
gather  the  second  family,  as  numerous  as  the 
first.  Yesterday's  preparations  are  repeated. 
My  legion  of  Spiders  first  weaves  a  divergent 
framework  between  the  top  of  the  brushwood 
placed  at  the  emigrants'  disposal  and  the  edge 
of  the  table.  Five  or  six  hundred  wee  beasties 
swarm  all  over  this  work-yard. 

While  this  little  world  is  busily  fussing, 
making  Its  arrangements  for  departure,  I 
make  my  own.  Every  aperture  in  the  room  Is 
closed,  so  as  to  obtain  as  calm  an  atmosphere 
as  possible.  A  small  chafing-dish  is  lit  at  the 
foot  of  the  table.  My  hands  cannot  feel  the 
heat  of  it  at  the  level  of  the  web  whereon 
my  Spiders  are  weaving.  This  is  the  very 
modest  fire  which,  with  its  column  of  rising 
air,  shall  unwind  the  threads  and  carry  them 
on  high. 

Let  us  first  enquire  the  direction  and 
strength  of  the  current.  Dandelion-plumes, 
made  lighter  by  the  removal  of  their  seeds, 
serve  as  my  guides.  Released  above  the  cha- 
fing-dish, on  the  level  of  the  table,  they  float 
slowly  upwards  and,  for  the  most  part,  reach 
the  ceiling.  The  emigrants'  lines  should  rise 
in  the  same  way  and  even  better. 
iq8 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

The  thing  Is  done :  with  the  aid  of  nothing 
that  is  visible  to  the  three  of  us  looking  on,  a 
Spider  makes  her  ascent.  She  ambles  with  her 
eight  legs  through  the  air ;  she  mounts,  gently 
swaying.  The  others,  in  ever-Increasing  num- 
bers, follow  sometimes  by  different  roads, 
sometimes  by  the  same  road.  Any  one  who 
did  not  possess  the  secret  would  stand  amazed 
at  this  magic  ascent  without  a  ladder.  In  a 
few  minutes  most  of  them  are  up,  clinging  to 
the  ceiling. 

Not  all  of  them  reach  It.  I  see  some  who, 
on  attaining  a  certain  height,  cease  to  go  up 
and  even  lose  ground,  although  moving  their 
legs  forward  with  all  the  nimbleness  of  which 
they  are  capable.  The  more  they  struggle  up- 
wards, the  faster  they  come  down.  This  drift- 
ing, which  neutralizes  the  distance  covered, 
and  even  converts  it  into  a  retrogression.  Is 
easily  explained. 

The  thread  has  not  reached  the  platform; 
it  floats,  it  is  fixed  only  at  the  lower  end.  As 
long  as  it  Is  of  a  fair  length,  it  is  able,  al- 
though moving,  to  bear  the  minute  animal's 
weight.  But,  as  the  Spider  climbs,  the  float 
becomes  shorter  In  proportion;  and  the  time 
comes  when  a  balance  is  struck  between  the 
199 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

ascensional  force  of  the  thread  and  the  weight 
carried.  Then  the  beastie  remains  stationary, 
although  continuing  to  climb. 

Presently,  the  weight  becomes  too  much 
for  the  shorter  and  shorter  float;  and  the 
Spider  slips  down,  in  spite  of  her  persistent 
forward  striving.  She  is  at  last  brought 
back  to  the  branch  by  the  falling  thread. 
Here  the  ascent  is  soon  renewed,  either 
on  a  fresh  thread,  if  the  supply  of  silk 
be  not  yet  exhausted,  or  on  a  strange 
thread,  the  work  of  those  who  have  gone 
before. 

As  a  rule,  the  ceiling  is  reached.  It  is  twelve 
feet  high.  The  little  Spider  is  able,  there- 
fore, as  the  first  product  of  her  spinning-mill, 
before  taking  any  refreshment,  to  obtain  a  line 
fully  twelve  feet  in  length.  And  all  this,  the 
rope-maker  and  her  rope,  was  contained  in  the 
egg,  a  particle  of  no  size  at  all.  To  what  a 
degree  of  fineness  can  the  silky  matter  be 
wrought  wherewith  the  young  Spider  is  pro- 
vided! Our  manufacturers  are  able  to  turn 
out  platinum-wire  that  can  only  be  seen  when 
It  Is  made  red-hot.  With  much  simpler  means 
the  Spiderling  draws  from  her  wire-mill 
threads  so  dehcate  that  even  the  brilhant  light 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

of  the  sun  does  not  always  enable  us  to  dis- 
cern them. 

We  must  not  let  all  the  climbers  be  stranded 
on  the  ceiling,  an  inhospitable  region,  where 
most  of  them  will  doubtless  perish,  being  un- 
able to  produce  a  second  thread  before  they 
have  had  a  meal.  I  open  the  window.  A 
current  of  lukewarm  air,  coming  from  the 
chafing-dish,  escapes  through  the  top.  Dan- 
delion-plumes, taking  that  direction,  tell 
me  so.  The  wafting  threads  cannot  fail 
to  be  carried  by  this  flow  of  air  and  to 
lengthen  out  in  the  open,  where  a  light  breeze 
Is  blowing. 

I  take  a  pair  of  sharp  scissors  and,  without 
shaking  the  threads,  cut  a  few  that  are 
just  visible  at  the  base,  where  they  are 
thickened  with  an  added  strand.  The  result 
of  this  operation  is  marvellous.  Hanging  to 
the  flying-rope,  which  is  borne  on  the  wind 
outside,  the  Spider  passes  through  the  win- 
dow, suddenly  flies  off  and  disappears.  An 
easy  way  of  travelling,  if  the  conveyance 
possessed  a  rudder  that  allowed  the  passenger 
to  land  where  he  pleases !  But  the  little  things 
are  at  the  mercy  of  the  winds :  where  will  they 
alight?    Hundreds,  thousands  of  yards  away 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

perhaps.  Let  us  wish  them  a  prosperous 
journey. 

The  problem  of  dissemination  is  now 
solved.  What  would  happen  if  matters,  in- 
stead of  being  brought  about  by  my  wiles,  took 
place  in  the  open  fields?  The  answer  is  ob- 
vious. The  young  Spiders,  born  acrobats  and 
rope-walkers,  climb  to  the  top  of  a  branch  so 
as  to  find  sufficient  space  below  them  to 
unfurl  their  apparatus.  Here,  each  draws 
from  her  rope-factory  a  thread  which  she 
abandons  to  the  eddies  of  the  air.  Gently 
raised  by  the  currents  that  ascend  from  the 
ground  warmed  by  the  sun,  this  thread  wafts 
upwards,  floats,  undulates,  makes  for  its  point 
of  contact.  At  last,  it  breaks  and  vanishes  in 
the  distance,  carrying  the  spinstress  hanging 
to  it. 

The  Epeira  with  the  three  white  crosses, 
the  Spider  who  has  supplied  us  with  these  first 
data  concerning  the  process  of  dissemination, 
is  endowed  with  a  moderate  maternal  indus- 
try. As  a  receptacle  for  the  eggs,  she  weaves 
a  mere  pill  of  silk.  Her  work  is  modest  in- 
deed beside  the  Banded  Epeira's  balloons.  I 
looked  to  these  to  supply  me  with  fuller  docu- 
ments.   I  had  laid  up  a  store  by  rearing  some 

202 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

mothers  during  the  autumn.  So  that  nothing 
of  Importance  might  escape  me,  I  divided  my 
stock  of  balloons,  most  of  which  were  woven 
before  my  eyes,  into  two  sections.  One  half 
remained  In  my  study,  under  a  wire-gauze 
cover,  with  small  bunches  of  brushwood  as 
supports ;  the  other  half  were  experiencing  the 
vicissitudes  of  open-air  life  on  the  rosemaries 
in  the  enclosure. 

These  preparations,  which  promised  so 
well,  did  not  provide  me  with  the  sight  which 
I  expected,  namely,  a  magnificent  exodus, 
worthy  of  the  tabernacle  occupied.  However, 
a  few  results  not  devoid  of  interest,  are  to  be 
noted.    Let  us  state  them  briefly. 

The  hatching  takes  place  as  March  ap- 
proaches. When  this  time  comes,  let  us  open 
the  Banded  Epeira's  nest  with  the  scissors. 
We  shall  find  that  some  of  the  youngsters 
have  already  left  the  central  chamber  and 
scattered  over  the  surrounding  eiderdown, 
while  the  rest  of  the  laying  still  consists  of  a 
compact  mass  of  orange  eggSo  The  appear- 
ance of  the  younglings  is  not  simultaneous;  It 
takes  place  with  Intermissions,  and  may  last  a 
couple  of  weeks. 

Nothing  as  yet  suggests  the  future,  richly- 

203 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

striped  livery.  The  abdomen  is  white  and,  as 
it  were,  floury  in  the  front  half;  in  the  other 
half  it  is  a  blackish-brown.  The  rest  of  the 
body  is  pale-yellow,  except  in  front,  where  the 
eyes  form  a  black  edging.  When  left  alone, 
the  little  ones  remain  motionless  in  the  soft, 
russet  swan's  down;  if  disturbed,  they  shuffle 
lazily  where  they  are,  or  even  walk  about  in  a 
hesitating  and  unsteady  fashion.  One  can  see 
that  they  have  to  ripen  before  venturing  out- 
side. 

Maturity  is  achieved  in  the  exquiste  floss 
that  surrounds  the  natal  chamber  and  fills  out 
the  balloon.  This  is  the  waiting-room  in 
which  the  body  hardens.  All  dive  into  it  as 
and  when  they  emerge  from  the  central  keg. 
They  will  not  leave  it  until  four  months  later, 
when  the  midsummer  heats  have  come. 

Their  number  is  considerable.  A  patient 
and  careful  census  gives  me  nearly  six  hun- 
dred. And  all  this  comes  out  of  a  purse  no 
larger  than  a  pea.  By  what  miracle  is  there 
room  for  such  a  family  ?  How  do  those  thou- 
sands of  legs  manage  to  grow  without  strain- 
ing themselves? 

The  egg-bag,  as  we  learnt  in  Chapter  II,  is 
a  short  cylinder  rounded  at  the  bottom.  It  is 
204 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

formed  of  compact  white  satin,  an  insuperable 
barrier.  It  opens  into  a  round  orifice  wherein 
is  bedded  a  lid  of  the  same  material,  through 
which  the  feeble  beasties  would  be  incapable 
of  passing.  It  is  not  a  porous  felt,  but  a  fab- 
ric as  tough  as  that  of  the  sack.  Then  by 
what  mechanism  is  the  delivery  effected? 

Observe  that  the  disk  of  the  lid  doubles 
back  into  a  short  fold,  which  edges  into  the 
orifice  of  the  bag.  In  the  same  way,  the  lid  of 
a  saucepan  fits  the  mouth  by  means  of  a  pro- 
jecting rim,  with  this  difference,  that  the  rim 
is  not  attached  to  the  saucepan,  whereas,  in 
the  Epeira's  work,  it  is  soldered  to  the  bag  or 
nest.  Well,  at  the  time  of  the  hatching,  this 
disk  becomes  unstuck,  lifts  and  allows  the 
new-born  Spiders  to  pass  through. 

If  the  rim  were  movable  and  simply  in- 
serted, if,  moreover,  the  birth  of  all  the  fam- 
ily took  place  at  the  same  time,  we  might 
think  that  the  door  Is  forced  open  by  the  liv- 
ing wave  of  inmates,  who  would  set  their 
backs  to  it  with  a  common  effort.  We  should 
find  an  approximate  Image  in  the  case  of  the 
saucepan,  whose  lid  is  raised  by  the  boiling  of 
its  contents.  But  the  fabric  of  the  cover  is  one 
with  the  fabric  of  the  bag,  the  two  are  closely 
205 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

welded;  besides,  the  hatching  is  effected 
in  small  batches,  incapable  of  the  least 
exertion.  There  must,  therefore,  be  a  sponta- 
neous bursting,  or  dehiscence,  independent  of 
the  assistance  of  the  youngsters  and  similar  to 
that  of  the  seed-pods  of  plants. 

When  fully  ripened,  the  dry  fruit  of  the 
snap-dragon  opens  three  windows ;  that  of  the 
pimpernel  splits  into  two  rounded  halves, 
something  like  those  of  the  outer  case  of  a 
fob-watch;  the  fruit  of  the  carnation  partly 
unseals  its  valves  and  opens  at  the  top  into  a 
star-shaped  hatch.  Each  seed-casket  has  its 
own  system  of  locks,  which  are  made  to  work 
smoothly  by  the  mere  kiss  of  the  sun. 

Well,  that  other  dry  fruit,  the  Banded 
Epeira's  germ-box,  likewise  possesses  its  burst- 
ing-gear. As  long  as  the  eggs  remain 
unhatched,  the  door,  solidly  fixed  in  its 
frame,  holds  good;  as  soon  as  the  little  ones 
swarm  and  want  to  get  out,  it  opens  of 
itself. 

Come  June  and  July,  beloved  of  the  Ci- 
cadae,  no  less  beloved  of  the  young  Spiders 
who  are  anxious  to  be  off.  It  were  difficult  in- 
deed for  them  to  work  their  way  through  the 
thick  shell  of  the  balloon.  For  the  second 
206 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

time,  a  spontaneous  dehiscence  seems  called 
for.    Where  will  it  be  effected? 

The  idea  occurs  off-hand  that  it  will  take 
place  long  the  edges  of  the  top  cover.  Re- 
member the  details  given  in  an  earlier  chap- 
ter. The  neck  of  the  balloon  ends  in  a  wide 
crater,  which  is  closed  by  a  ceiling  dug  out 
cup-wise.  The  material  is  as  stout  in  this  part 
as  in  any  other;  but,  as  the  lid  was  the  finish- 
ing touch  to  the  work,  we  expect  to  find  an  in- 
complete soldering,  which  would  allow  it  to 
be  unfastened. 

The  method  of  construction  deceives  us: 
the  ceiling  is  immovable;  at  no  season  can  my 
forceps  manage  to  extract  it,  without  destroy- 
ing the  building  from  top  to  bottom.  The 
dehiscence  takes  places  elsewhere,  at  some 
point  on  the  sides.  Nothing  informs  us,  noth- 
ing suggests  to  us  that  it  will  occur  at  one 
place  rather  than  another. 

Moreover,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a  de- 
hiscence prepared  by  means  of  some  dainty 
piece  of  mechanism;  it  is  a  very  irregular  tear. 
Somewhat  sharply,  under  the  fierce  heat  of  the 
sun,  the  satin  bursts  like  the  rind  of  an  over- 
ripe pomegranate.  Judging  by  the  result,  we 
think  of  the  expansion  of  the  air  inside,  which, 

20f 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

heated  by  the  sun,  causes  this  rupture.  The 
signs  of  pressure  from  within  are  manifest: 
the  tatters  of  the  torn  fabric  are  turned  out- 
wards; also,  a  wisp  of  the  russet  eiderdown 
that  fills  the  wallet  invariably  straggles 
through  the  breach.  In  the  midst  of  the  pro- 
truding floss,  the  Spiderlings,  expelled  from 
their  home  by  the  explosion,  are  in  frantic 
commotion. 

The  balloons  of  the  Banded  Epeira  are 
bombs  which,  to  free  their  contents,  burst  un- 
der the  rays  of  a  torrid  sun.  To  break  they 
need  the  fiery  heat-waves  of  the  dog-days. 
When  kept  in  the  moderate  atmosphere  of  my 
study,  most  of  them  do  not  open  and  the  emer- 
gence of  the  young  does  not  take  place,  unless 
I  myself  have  a  hand  in  the  business;  a  few 
others  open  with  a  round  hole,  a  hole  so  neat 
that  it  might  have  been  made  with  a  punch. 
This  aperture  is  the  work  of  the  prisoners, 
who,  relieving  one  another  in  turns,  have, 
with  a  patient  tooth,  bitten  through  the  stuff 
of  the  jar  at  some  point  or  other. 

When  exposed  to  the  full  force  of  the  sun, 

however,  on  the  rosemaries  in  the  enclosure, 

the  balloons  burst  and  shoot  forth  a  ruddy 

flood  of  floss  and  tiny  animals.     That  is  how 

208 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

things  occur  in  the  free  sun-bath  of  the  fields. 
Unsheltered,  among  the  bushes,  the  wallet  of 
the  Banded  Epeira,  when  the  July  heat  ar- 
rives, splits  under  the  effort  of  the  inner  air. 
The  delivery  is  effected  by  an  explosion  of  the 
dwelling. 

A  very  small  part  of  the  family  are  expelled 
with  the  flow  of  tawny  floss;  the  vast  major- 
ity remain  in  the  bag,  which  is  ripped  open, 
but  still  bulges  with  eiderdown.  Now  that 
the  breach  is  made,  any  one  can  go  out  who 
pleases,  in  his  own  good  time,  without  hurry- 
ing. Besides,  a  solemn  action  has  to  be  per- 
formed before  the  emigration.  The  ani- 
mal must  cast  its  skin;  and  the  moult  is  an 
event  that  does  not  fall  on  the  same  date  for 
all.  The  evacuation  of  the  place,  therefore, 
lasts  several  days.  It  is  effected  in  small 
squads,  as  the  slough  is  flung  aside. 

Those  who  sally  forth  climb  up  the  neigh- 
bouring twigs  and  there,  in  the  full  heat  of 
the  sun,  proceed  with  the  work  of  dissemina- 
tion. The  method  is  the  same  as  that  which 
we  saw  in  the  case  of  the  Cross  Spider.  The 
spinnerets  abandon  to  the  breeze  a  thread  that 
floats,  breaks  and  flies  away,  carrying  the 
rope-maker  with  it.  The  number  of  starters 
209 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

on  any  one  morning  Is  so  small  as  to  rob  the 
spectacle  of  the  greater  part  of  its  interest. 
The  scene  lacks  animation  because  of  the  ab- 
sence of  a  crowd. 

To  my  intense  disappointment,  the  Silky 
Epeira  does  not  either  indulge  in  a  tumultu- 
ous and  dashing  exodus.  Let  me  remind  you 
of  her  handiwork,  the  handsomest  of  the  ma- 
ternal wallets,  next  to  the  Banded  Epeira's. 
It  is  an  obtuse  conoid,  closed  with  a  star- 
shaped  disk.  It  is  made  of  a  stouter  and  es- 
pecially a  thicker  material  than  the  Banded 
Epeira's  balloon,  for  which  reason  a  sponta- 
neous rupture  becomes  more  necessary  than 
ever. 

This  rupture  is  effected  at  the  sides  of  the 
bag,  not  far  from  the  edge  of  the  lid.  Like 
the  ripping  of  the  balloon,  it  requires  the 
rough  aid  of  the  heat  of  July.  Its  mechan- 
ism also  seems  to  work  by  the  expansion  of 
the  heated  air,  for  we  again  see  a  partial  emis- 
sion of  the  silky  floss  that  fills  the  pouch. 

The  exit  of  the  family  Is  performed  in  a 
single  group,  and,  this  time,  before  the  moult, 
perhaps  for  lack  of  the  space  necessary  for  the 
delicate  casting  of  the  skin.  The  conical  bag 
falls  far  short  of  the  balloon  In  size;  those 

210 


The  Spiders'  Exodus 

packed  within  would  sprain  their  legs  in  ex- 
tracting them  from  their  sheaths.  The  fam- 
ily, therefore,  emerges  in  a  body  and  settles 
on  a  sprig  hard  by. 

This  is  a  temporary  camping-ground,  where, 
spinning  in  unison,  the  youngsters  soon  weave 
an  open-work  tent,  the  abode  of  a  week,  or 
thereabouts.  The  moult  is  effected  in  this 
lounge  of  intersecting  threads.  The  sloughed 
skins  form  a  heap  at  the  bottom  of 
the  dwelling;  on  the  trapezes  above,  the 
flaylings  take  exercise  and  gain  strength  and 
vigour.  Finally,  when  maturity  is  attained, 
they  set  out,  now  these,  now  those,  little  by 
little  and  always  cautiously.  There  are  no 
audacious  flights  on  the  thready  air-ship;  the 
journey  is  accomplished  by  modest  stages. 

Hanging  to  her  thread,  the  Spider  lets  her- 
self drop  straight  down,  to  a  depth  of  nine  or 
ten  inches.  A  breath  of  air  sets  her  swinging 
like  a  pendulum,  sometimes  drives  her  against 
a  neighbouring  branch.  This  is  a  step  towards 
the  dispersal.  At  the  point  reached,  there  is 
a  fresh  fall,  followed  by  a  fresh  pendulous 
swing  that  lands  her  a  little  farther  afield. 
Thus,  In  short  tacks,  for  the  thread  is  never 
very  long,  does  the  Spiderling  go  about,  see- 

21 1 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

ing  the  country,  until  she  comes  to  a  place  that 
suits  her.  Should  the  wind  blow  at  all  hard, 
the  voyage  is  cut  short:  the  cable  of  the  pen- 
dulum breaks  and  the  beastie  is  carried  for 
some  distance  on  its  cord. 

To  sum  up,  although,  on  the  whole,  the 
tactics  of  the  exodus  remain  much  the  same, 
the  two  spinstresses  of  my  region  best-versed 
in  the  art  of  weaving  mothers'  wallets  failed 
to  come  up  to  my  expectations.  I  went  to  the 
trouble  of  rearing  them,  with  disappointing 
results.  Where  shall  I  find  again  the  wonder- 
ful spectacle  which  the  Cross  Spider  offered 
me  by  chance?  I  shall  find  it — in  an 
even  more  striking  fashion — among  humbler 
Spiders  whom  I  had  neglected  to  observe. 


212 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   CRAB   SPIDER 

THE  Spider  that  showed  me  the  exodus 
in  all  its  magnificence  is  known  officially 
as  Thomisiis  omtstus,  Walck.  Though  the 
name  suggest  nothing  to  the  reader's  mind,  it 
has  the  advantage,  at  any  rate,  of  hurting 
neither  the  throat  nor  the  ear,  as  is  too  often 
the  case  with  scientific  nomenclature,  which 
sounds  more  like  sneezing  than  articulate 
speech.  Since  it  is  the  rule  to  dignify  plants 
and  animals  with  a  Latin  label,  let  us  at  least 
respect  the  euphony  of  the  classics  and  refrain 
from  harsh  splutters  which  spit  out  a  name 
instead  of  pronouncing  it. 

What  will  posterity  do  in  face  of  the  ris- 
ing tide  of  a  barbarous  vocabulary  which, 
under  the  pretence  of  progress,  stifles  real 
knowledge?  It  will  relegate  the  whole  busi- 
ness to  the  quagmire  of  oblivion.  But  what 
will  never  disappear  is  the  popular  name, 
which  sounds  well,  is  picturesque  and  conveyf 
some  sort  of  information.     Such  Is  the  term 

213 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Crab  Spider,  applied  by  the  ancients  to  the 
group  to  which  the  Thomisus  belongs,  a 
pretty  accurate  term,  for,  in  this  case,  there  is 
an  evident  analogy  between  the  Spider  and  the 
Crustacean. 

Like  the  Crab,  the  Thomisus  walks  side- 
ways ;  she  also  has  fore-legs  stronger  than  her 
hind-legs.  The  only  thing  wanting  to  com- 
plete the  resemblance  is  the  front  pair  of 
stone  gauntlets,  raised  in  the  attitude  of  self- 
defence. 

The  Spider  with  the  Crab-like  figure  does 
not  know  how  to  manufacture  nets  for  catch- 
ing game.  Without  springs  or  snares,  she 
lies  in  ambush,  among  the  flowers,  and  awaits 
the  arrival  of  the  quarry,  which  she  kills  by 
administering  a  scientific  stab  in  the  neck. 
The  Thomisus,  in  particular,  the  subject  of 
this  chapter,  is  passionately  addicted  to  the 
pursuit  of  the  Domestic  Bee.  I  have  de- 
scribed the  contests  between  the  victim 
and  her  executioner,  at  greater  length,  else- 
where. 

The  Bee  appears,  seeking  no  quarrel,  intent 

upon  plunder.   She  tests  the  flowers  with  her 

tongue;  she  selects  a  spot  that  will  yield  a 

good  return.    Soon  she  is  wrapped  up  in  her 

214 


The  Crab  Spider 

harvesting.  While  she  is  filling  her  baskets 
and  distending  her  crop,  the  Thomisus,  that 
bandit  lurking  under  cover  of  the  flowers, 
issues  from  her  hiding-place,  creeps  round  be- 
hind the  bustling  insect,  steals  up  close  and, 
with  a  sudden  rush,  nabs  her  in  the  nape  of 
the  neck.  In  vain,  the  Bee  protests  and  darts 
her  sting  at  random;  the  assailant  does  not 
let  go. 

Besides,  the  bite  in  the  neck  is  paralyzing, 
because  the  cervical  nerve-centres  are  affected. 
The  poor  thing's  legs  stiffen;  and  all  is  over 
in  a  second.  The  murderess  now  sucks  the 
victim's  blood  at  her  ease  and,  when  she  has 
done,  scornfully  flings  the  drained  corpse 
aside.  She  hides  herself  once  more,  ready  to 
bleed  a  second  gleaner  should  the  occasion 
offer. 

This  slaughter  of  the  Bee  engaged  In  the 
hallowed  delights  of  labour  has  always  re- 
volted me.  Why  should  there  be  workers  to 
feed  Idlers,  why  sweated  to  keep  sweaters  In 
luxury?  Why  should  so  many  admirable 
lives  be  sacrificed  to  the  greater  prosperity  of 
brigandage?  These  hateful  discords  amid  the 
general  harmony  perplex  the  thinker,  all  the 
more  as  we  shall  see  the  cruel  vampire  become 

215 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

a  model  of  devotion  where  her  family  is  con- 
cerned. 

The  ogre  loved  his  children;  he  ate  the 
children  of  others.  Under  the  tyranny  of  the 
stomach,  we  are  all  of  us,  beasts  and  men 
alike,  ogres.  The  dignity  of  labour,  the  joy 
of  life,  maternal  affection,  the  terrors  of 
death:  all  these  do  not  count,  in  others;  the 
main  point  is  that  the  morsel  be  tender  and 
savoury. 

According  to  the  etymology  of  her  name — 
6u)/^iy^,  a  cord — the  Thomisus  should  be  like 
the  ancient  lictor,  who  bound  the  sufferer  to 
the  stake.  The  comparison  is  not  inappropri- 
ate as  regards  many  Spiders  who  tie  their  prey 
with  a  thread  to  subdue  it  and  consume  it 
at  their  ease;  but  it  just  happens  that  the 
Thomisus  is  at  variance  with  her  label.  She 
does  not  fasten  her  Bee,  who,  dying  suddenly 
of  a  bite  in  the  neck,  offers  no  resistance  to 
her  consumer.  Carried  away  by  his  recollec- 
tion of  the  regular  tactics,  our  Spider's  god- 
father overlooked  the  exception;  he  did  not 
know  of  the  perfidious  mode  of  attack  which 
renders  the  use  of  a  bowstring  superfluous. 

Nor  is  the  second  name  of  onustus — loaded, 
burdened,  freighted — any  too  happily  chosen. 
216 


The  Crab  Spider 

The  fact  that  the  Bee-huntress  carries  a  heavy 
paunch  is  no  reason  to  refer  to  this  as  a  dis- 
tinctive characteristic.  Nearly  all  Spiders 
have  a  voluminous  belly,  a  silk-warehouse 
where,  in  some  cases,  the  rigging  of  the  net, 
in  others,  the  swan's  down  of  the  nest  is 
manufactured.  The  Thomisus,  a  first-class 
nest-builder,  does  like  the  rest:  she  hoards  in 
her  abdomen,  but  without  undue  display  of 
obesity,  the  wherewithal  to  house  her  family 
snugly. 

Can  the  expression  onustus  refer  simply  to 
her  slow  and  sidelong  walk?  The  explanation 
appeals  to  me,  without  satisfying  me  fully. 
Except  in  the  case  of  a  sudden  alarm,  every 
Spider  maintains  a  sober  gait  and  a  wary 
pace.  When  all  is  said,  the  scientific  term  is 
composed  of  a  misconception  and  a  worthless 
epithet.  How  difficult  it  is  to  name  animals 
rationally !  Let  us  be  Indulgent  to  the  nomen- 
clator:  the  dictionary  is  becoming  exhausted 
and  the  constant  flood  that  requires  cata- 
loguing mounts  incessantly,  wearing  out  our 
combinations  of  syllables. 

As  the  technical  name  tells  the  reader 
nothing,  how  shall  he  be  Informed?  I  see  but 
one  means,  which  is  to  invite  him  to  the  May 
217 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

festivals,  in  the  waste-lands  of  the  South.  The 
murderess  of  the  Bees  is  of  a  chilly  constitu- 
tion; in  our  parts,  she  hardly  ever  moves  away 
from  the  olive-districts.  Her  favourite  shrub 
is  the  white-leaved  rock-rose  {Cisttis  albidus), 
with  the  large,  pink,  crumpled,  ephemeral 
blooms  that  last  but  a  morning  and  are  re- 
placed, next  day,  by  fresh  flowers,  which 
have  blossomed  in  the  cool  dawn.  This 
glorious  efflorescence  goes  on  for  five  or  six 
weeks. 

Here,  the  Bees  plunder  enthusiastically, 
fussing  and  bustling  in  the  spacious  whorl  of 
the  stamens,  which  beflour  them  with  yellow. 
Their  persecutrix  knows  of  this  affluence.  She 
posts  herself  in  her  watch-house,  under  the 
rosy  screen  of  a  petal.  Cast  your  eyes  over 
the  flower,  more  or  less  everywhere.  If  you 
see  a  Bee  lying  lifeless,  with  legs  and  tongue 
outstretched,  draw  nearer :  the  Thomisus  will 
be  there,  nine  times  out  of  ten.  The  thug  has 
struck  her  blow;  she  is  draining  the  blood  of 
the  departed. 

After  all,  this  cutter  of  Bees'  throats  is  a 
pretty,  a  very  pretty  creature,  despite  her  un- 
wieldy paunch  fashioned  like  a  squat  pyra- 
mid and  embossed  on  the  base,  on  either  side, 
218 


The  Crab  Spider 

with  a  pimple  shaped  like  a  camel's  hump. 
The  skin,  more  pleasing  to  the  eye  than  any 
satin,  is  milk-white  in  some,  in  others  lemon- 
yellow.  There  are  fine  ladles  among  them 
who  adorn  their  legs  with  a  number  of  pink 
bracelets  and  their  back  with  carmine  ara- 
besques. A  narrow  pale-green  ribbon  some- 
times edges  the  right  and  left  of  the  breast. 
It  is  not  so  rich  as  the  costume  of  the  Banded 
Epeira,  but  much  more  elegant  because  of  its 
soberness,  its  daintiness  and  the  artful  blend- 
ing of  its  hues.  Novice  fingers,  which  shrink 
from  touching  any  other  Spider,  allow  them- 
selves to  be  enticed  by  these  attractions;  they 
do  not  fear  to  handle  the  beauteous  Thomisus, 
so  gentle  in  appearance. 

Well,  what  can  this  gem  among  Spiders  do? 
In  the  first  place  she  makes  a  nest  worthy  of 
its  architect.  With  twigs  and  horse-hair  and 
bits  of  wool,  the  Goldfinch,  the  Chaffinch  and 
other  masters  of  the  builder's  art  construct  an 
aerial  bower  in  the  fork  of  the  branches. 
Herself  a  lover  of  high  places,  the  Thomisus 
selects  as  the  site  of  her  nest  one  of  the  upper 
twigs  of  the  rock-rose,  her  regular  hunting- 
ground,  a  twig  withered  by  the  heat  and  pos- 
sessing a  few  dead  leaves,  which  curl  into  a 
219 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

little  cottage.  This  is  where  she  settles  with 
a  view  to  her  eggs. 

Ascending  and  descending  with  a  gentle 
swing  in  more  or  less  every  direction,  the  liv- 
ing shuttle,  swollen  with  silk,  weaves  a  bag 
whose  outer  casing  becomes  one  with  the  dry- 
leaves  around.  The  work,  which  is  partly 
visible  and  partly  hidden  by  Its  supports,  is 
a  pure  dead-white.  Its  shape,  moulded  in  the 
angular  Interval  between  the  bent  leaves,  is 
that  of  a  cone  and  reminds  us,  on  a  smaller 
scale,  of  the  nest  of  the  Silky  Epeira. 

When  the  eggs  are  laid,  the  mouth  of  the 
receptacle  is  hermetically  closed  with  a  lid  of 
the  same  white  silk.  Lastly,  a  few  threads, 
stretched  like  a  thin  curtain,  form  a  canopy 
above  the  nest  and,  with  the  curved  tips  of  the 
leaves,  frame  a  sort  of  alcove  wherein  the 
mother  takes  up  her  abode. 

It  is  more  than  a  place  of  rest  after  the 
fatigues  of  her  confinement:  It  Is  a  guard- 
room, an  inspection-post  where  the  mother  re- 
mains sprawling  until  the  youngsters'  exodus. 
Greatly  emaciated  by  the  laying  of  her  eggs 
and  by  her  expenditure  of  silk,  she  lives  only 
for  the  protection  of  her  nest. 

Should  some  vagrant  pass  near  by,   she 

220 


The  Crab  Spider 

hurries  from  her  watch-tower,  lifts  a  limb  and 
puts  the  intruder  to  flight.  If  I  tease  her  with 
a  straw,  she  parries  with  big  gestures,  like 
those  of  a  prize-fighter.  She  uses  her  fists 
against  my  weapon.  When  I  propose  to  dis- 
lodge her  in  view  of  certain  experiments,  I 
find  some  difficulty  in  doing  so.  She  clings 
to  the  silken  floor,  she  frustrates  my  attacks, 
which  I  am  bound  to  moderate  lest  I  should 
injure  her.  She  is  no  sooner  attracted  outside 
than  she  stubbornly  returns  to  her  post.  She 
declines  to  leave  her  treasure. 

Even  so  does  the  Narbonne  Lycosa  struggle 
when  we  try  to  take  away  her  pill.  Each  dis- 
plays the  same  pluck  and  the  same  devotion; 
and  also  the  same  denseness  in  distinguishing 
her  property  from  that  of  others.  The  Ly- 
cosa accepts  without  hesitation  any  strange  pill 
which  she  is  given  in  exchange  for  her  own; 
she  confuses  alien  produce  with  the  produce  of 
her  ovaries  and  her  silk-factory.  Those 
hallowed  words,  maternal  love,  were  out  of 
place  here :  it  is  an  impetuous,  an  almost  me- 
chanical impulse,  wherein  real  affection  plays 
no  part  whatever.  The  beautiful  Spider  of 
the  rock-roses  is  no  more  generously  endowed. 
When  moved  from  her  nest  to  another  of  the 

221 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

same  kind,  she  settles  upon  it  and  never  stirs 
from  it,  even  though  the  different  arrange- 
ment of  the  leafy  fence  be  such  as  to  warn 
her  that  she  is  not  really  at  home.  Provided 
that  she  have  satin  under  her  feet,  she  does 
not  notice  her  mistake;  she  watches  over  an- 
other's nest  with  the  same  vigilance  which  she 
might  show  in  watching  over  her  own. 

The  Lycosa  surpasses  her  in  maternal 
blindness.  She  fastens  to  her  spinnerets  and 
dangles,  by  way  of  a  bag  of  eggs,  a  ball  of 
cork  polished  with  my  file,  a  paper  pellet,  a 
little  ball  of  thread.  In  order  to  discover  if 
the  Thomisus  is  capable  of  a  similar  error,  I 
gathered  some  broken  pieces  of  silk-worm's 
cocoon  into  a  closed  cone,  turning  the  frag- 
ments so  as  to  bring  the  smoother  and  more 
delicate  inner  surface  outside.  My  attempt 
was  unsuccessful.  When  removed  from  her 
home  and  placed  on  the  artificial  wallet,  the 
mother  Thomisus  obstinately  refused  to  settle 
there.  Can  she  be  more  clear-sighted  than  the 
Lycosa?  Perhaps  so.  Let  us  not  be  too 
extravagant  with  our  praise,  however; 
the  imitation  of  the  bag  was  a  very  clumsy 
one. 

The  work  of  laying  is  finished  by  the  end 


The  Crab  Spider 

of  May,  after  which,  lying  flat  on  the  ceiling 
of  her  nest,  the  mother  never  leaves  her 
guard-room,  either  by  night  or  day.  Seeing 
her  look  so  thin  and  wrinkled,  I  imagine  that 
I  can  please  her  by  bringing  her  a  provision  of 
Bees,  as  I  was  wont  to  do.  I  have  misjudged 
her  needs.  The  Bee,  hitherto  her  favourite 
dish,  tempts  her  no  longer.  In  vain  does  the 
prey  buzz  close  by,  an  easy  capture  within  the 
cage:  the  watcher  does  not  shift  from  her 
post,  takes  no  notice  of  the  windfall.  She 
lives  exclusively  upon  maternal  devotion,  a 
commendable  but  unsubstantial  fare.  And  so 
I  see  her  pining  away  from  day  to  day,  be- 
coming more  and  more  wrinkled.  What  is 
the  withered  thing  waiting  for,  before  expir- 
ing? She  is  waiting  for  her  children  to 
emerge;  the  dying  creature  is  still  of  use  to 
them. 

When  the  Banded  Epeira's  little  ones  issue 
from  their  balloon,  they  have  long  been 
orphans.  There  is  none  to  come  to  their 
assistance;  and  they  have  not  the  strength  to 
free  themselves  unaided.  The  balloon  has  to 
split  automatically  and  to  scatter  the  young- 
sters and  their  flossy  mattress  all  mixed  up 
together.  The  Thomisus'  wallet,  sheathed  in 
223 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

leaves  over  the  greater  part  of  Its  surface, 
never  bursts ;  nor  does  the  lid  rise,  so  carefully 
is  it  sealed  down.  Nevertheless,  after  the  de- 
livery of  the  brood,  we  see,  at  the  edge  of  the 
lid,  a  small,  gaping  hole,  an  exit-window. 
Who  contrived  this  window,  which  was  not 
there  at  first? 

The  fabric  is  too  thick  and  tough  to 
have  yielded  to  the  twitches  of  the  feeble  little 
prisoners.  It  was  the  mother,  therefore,  who, 
feeling  her  offspring  shuffle  impatiently  under 
the  silken  ceiling,  herself  made  a  hole  in  the 
bag.  She  persists  in  living  for  five  or  six 
weeks,  despite  her  shattered  health,  so  as  to 
give  a  last  helping  hand  and  open  the  door 
for  her  family.  After  performing  this  duty, 
she  gently  lets  herself  die,  hugging  her  nest 
and  turning  into  a  shrivelled  relic. 

When  July  comes,  the  little  ones  emerge. 
In  view  of  their  acrobatic  habits,  I  have  placed 
a  bundle  of  slender  twigs  at  the  top  of  the 
cage  in  which  they  were  born.  All  of  them 
pass  through  the  wire  gauze  and  form  a 
group  on  the  summit  of  the  brushwood,  where 
they  swiftly  weave  a  spacious  lounge  of  criss- 
cross threads.  Here  they  remain,  pretty 
quietly,  for  a  day  or  two;  then  foot-bridges 
224 


The  Crab  Spider 

begin  to  be  flung  from  one  object  to  the  next. 
This  is  the  opportune  moment. 

I  put  the  bunch  laden  with  beasties  on  a 
small  table,  in  the  shade,  before  the  open  win- 
dow. Soon,  the  exodus  commences,  but  slowly 
and  unsteadily.  There  are  hesitations,  retro- 
gressions, perpendicular  falls  at  the  end  of  a 
thread,  ascents  that  bring  the  hanging  Spider 
up  again.  In  short,  much  ado  for  a  poor 
result. 

As  matters  continue  to  drag,  it  occurs  to  me, 
at  eleven  o'clock,  to  take  the  bundle  of  brush- 
wood swarming  with  the  little  Spiders,  all 
eager  to  be  off,  and  place  it  on  the  window-sill, 
in  the  glare  of  the  sun.  After  a  few  minutes 
of  heat  and  light,  the  scene  assumes  a  very 
different  aspect.  The  emigrants  run  to  the 
top  of  the  twigs,  bustle  about  actively.  It 
becomes  a  bewildering  rope-yard,  where  thou- 
sands of  legs  are  drawing  the  hemp  from  the 
spinnerets.  I  do  not  see  the  ropes  manu- 
factured and  sent  floating  at  the  mercy  of  the 
air;  but  I  guess  their  presence. 

Three  or  four  Spiders  start  at  a  time,  each 
going  her  own  way  in  directions  independent 
of  her  neighbours'.  All  are  moving  upwards, 
all  are  climbing  some  support,  as  can  be  per- 

225 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

ceived  by  the  nimble  motion  of  their  legs. 
Moreover,  the  road  is  visible  behind  the 
climber,  it  is  of  double  thickness,  thanks  to  an 
added  thread.  Then,  at  a  certain  height,  in- 
dividual movement  ceases.  The  tiny  animal 
soars  in  space  and  shines,  lit  up  by  the  sun. 
Softly  it  sways,  then  suddenly  takes  flight. 

What  has  happened?  There  is  a  slight 
breeze  outside.  The  floating  cable  has 
snapped  and  the  creature  has  gone  off,  borne 
on  its  parachute.  I  see  it  drifting  away, 
showing,  like  a  spot  of  light,  against  the  dark 
foliage  of  the  near  cypresses,  some  forty  feet 
distant.  It  rises  higher,  it  crosses  over  the 
cypress-screen,  it  disappears.  Others  follow, 
some  higher,  some  lower,  hither  and  thither. 

But  the  throng  has  finished  its  preparations; 
the  hour  has  come  to  disperse  in  swarms. 
We  now  see,  from  the  crest  of  the  brushwood, 
a  continuous  spra^^  of  starters,  who  shoot  up 
like  microscopic  projectiles  and  mount  in  a 
spreading  cluster.  In  the  end,  it  is  like  the 
bouquet  at  the  finish  of  a  pyrotechnic  display, 
the  sheaf  of  rockets  fired  simultaneously.  The 
comparison  is  correct  down  to  the  dazzling 
light  itself.  Flaming  in  the  sun  like  so  many 
gleaming  points,  the  little  Spiders  are  the 
226 


The  Crab  Spider 

sparks  of  that  living  firework.  What  a  glo- 
rious send-off !  What  an  entrance  into  the 
world  I  Clutching  its  aeronautic  thread,  the 
minute  creature  mounts  in  an  apotheosis. 

Sooner  or  later,  nearer  or  farther,  the  fall 
comes.  To  live,  we  have  to  descend,  often 
very  low,  alas!  The  Crested  Lark  crumbles 
the  mule-droppings  in  the  road  and  thus  picks 
up  his  food,  the  oaten  grain  which  he  would 
never  find  by  soaring  in  the  sky,  his  throat 
swollen  with  song.  We  have  to  descend;  the 
stomach's  inexorable  claims  demand  it.  The 
Spiderling,  therefore,  touches  land.  Gravity, 
tempered  by  the  parachute,  is  kind  to  her. 

The  rest  of  her  story  escapes  me.  What 
infinitely  tiny  Midges  does  she  capture  before 
possessing  the  strength  to  stab  her  Bee  ?  W^hat 
are  the  methods,  what  the  wiles  of  atom  con- 
tending with  atom?  I  know  not.  We  shall 
find  her  again  in  spring,  grown  quite  large 
and  crouching  among  the  flowers  whence  the 
Bee  takes  toll. 


227 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE    GARDEN    SPIDERS:    BUILDING   THE    WEB 

'TpHE  fowling-snare  Is  one  of  man's  Ingen- 
-■-  ious  villainies.  With  lines,  pegs  and 
poles,  two  large,  earth-coloured  nets  are 
stretched  upon  the  ground,  one  to  the  right, 
the  other  to  the  left  of  a  bare  surface.  A  long 
cord,  pulled,  at  the  right  moment,  by  the 
fowler,  who  hides  in  a  brushwood  hut,  works 
them  and  brings  them  together  suddenly, 
like  a  pair  of  shutters. 

Divided  between  the  two  nets  are  the  cages 
of  the  decoy-birds — Linnets  and  Chaffinches, 
Greenfinches  and  Yellowhammers,  Buntings 
and  Ortolans — sharp-eared  creatures  which, 
on  perceiving  the  distant  passage  of  a  flock  of 
their  own  kind,  forthwith  utter  a  short  calling 
note.  One  of  them,  the  Samhe,  an  irresistible 
tempter,  hops  about  and  flaps  his  wings  in  ap- 
parent freedom.  A  bit  of  twine  fastens  him 
to  his  convict's  stake.  When,  worn  with  fa- 
tigue and  driven  desperate  by  his  vain  at- 
tempts to  get  away,  the  sufferer  lies  down  flat 
228 


The  Garaen  Spiders:  Building  the  Web 

and  refuses  to  do  his  duty,  the  fowler  is  able 
to  stimulate  him  without  stirring  from  his  hut. 
A  long  string  sets  in  motion  a  little  lever  work- 
ing on  a  pivot.  Raised  from  the  ground  by 
this  diabolical  contrivance,  the  bird  flies,  falls 
down  and  flies  up  again  at  each  jerk  of  the 
cord. 

The  fowler  waits,  in  the  mild  sunlight  of 
the  autumn  morning.  Suddenly,  great  excite- 
ment in  the  cages.  The  Chaffinches  chirp  their 
rallying-cry : 

Tinck!    Pinck!' 

There  is  something  happening  in  the  sky. 
The  Sambe,  quick !  They  are  coming,  the  sim- 
pletons; they  swoop  down  upon  the  treacher- 
ous floor.  With  a  rapid  movement,  the  man 
in  ambush  pulls  his  string.  The  nets  close  and 
the  whole  flock  is  caught. 

Man  has  wild  beast's  blood  in  his  veins. 
The  fowler  hastens  to  the  slaughter.  With  his 
thumb,  he  stifles  the  beating  of  the  captives' 
hearts,  staves  in  their  skulls.  The  little  birds, 
so  many  piteous  heads  of  game,  will  go  to  mar- 
ket, strung  in  dozens  on  a  wire  passed  through 
their  nostrils. 

For  scoundrelly  ingenuity,  the  Epeira's  net 
can  bear  comparison  with  the  fowler's ;  it  even 
229 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

surpasses  It  when,  on  patient  study,  the  main 
features  of  its  supreme  perfection  stand  re- 
vealed. What  refinement  of  art  for  a  mess  of 
Fhes !  Nowhere,  in  the  whole  animal  king- 
dom, has  the  need  to  eat  inspired  a  more  cun- 
ning industry.  If  the  reader  will  meditate 
upon  the  description  that  follows,  he  will  cer- 
tainly share  my  admiration. 

First  of  all,  we  must  witness  the  making  of 
the  net;  we  must  see  it  constructed  and  see  It 
again  and  again,  for  the  plan  of  such  a  com- 
plex work  can  only  be  grasped  In  fragments. 
To-day,  observation  will  give  us  one  detail; 
to-morrow,  it  will  give  us  a  second,  suggesting 
fresh  points  of  view;  as  our  visits  multiply, 
a  new  fact  is  each  time  added  to  the  sum  total 
of  the  acquired  data,  confirming  those  which 
come  before  or  directing  our  thoughts  along 
unsuspected  paths. 

The  snow-ball  rolling  over  the  carpet  of 
white  grows  enormous,  however  scanty  each 
fresh  layer  be.  Even  so  with  truth  In  observa- 
tional science :  It  Is  built  up  of  trifles  patiently 
gathered  together.  And,  while  the  collecting 
of  these  trifles  means  that  the  student  of 
Spider  Industry  must  not  be  chary  of  his  time, 
at  least  it  Involves  no  distant  and  speculative 
230 


The  Garden  Spiders:  Building  the  Web 

research.       The     smallest    garden    contains 
Epeirae,  all  accomplished  weavers. 

In  my  enclosure,  which  I  have  stocked  care- 
fully with  the  most  famous  breeds,  I  have  six 
different  species  under  observation,  all  of  a 
useful  size,  all  first-class  spinners.  Their 
names  are  the  Banded  Epeira  {Epeira  fasci- 
ata  Walck.),  the  Silky  Epeira  (E.  sericea, 
Walck.),  the  Angular  Epeira  (E.  angiilata, 
Walck.),  the  Pale-tinted  Epeira  (E.  pallida, 
Oliv.  ),  the  Diadem  Epeira,  or  Cross  Spider 
{E.  diadema,  Clerk.),  and  the  Crater  Epeira 
{E.  cratera,  Walck.). 

I  am  able,  at  the  proper  hours,  all  through 
the  fine  season,  to  question  them,  to  watch 
them  at  work,  now  this  one,  anon  that,  accord- 
ing to  the  chances  of  the  day.  What  I  did  not 
see  very  plainly  yesterday  I  can  see  the  next 
day,  under  better  conditions,  and  on  any  of  the 
following  days,  until  the  phenomenon  under 
observation  Is  revealed  in  all  clearness. 

Let  us  go  every  evening,  step  by  step,  from 
one  border  of  tall  rosemaries  to  the  next. 
Should  things  move  too  slowly,  we  will  sit 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  shrubs,  opposite  the 
rope-yard,  where  the  light  falls  favourably, 
and  watch  with  unwearying  attention.  Each 
231 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

trip  will  be  good  for  a  fact  that  fills  some  gap 
in  the  ideas  already  gathered.  To  appoint 
one's  self,  in  this  way,  an  inspector  of  Spiders' 
webs,  for  many  years  in  succession  and  for 
long  seasons,  means  joining  a  not  overcrowded 
profession,  I  admit.  Heaven  knows,  it  does 
not  enable  one  to  put  money  by !  No  matter : 
the  meditative  mind  returns  from  that  school 
fully  satisfied. 

To  describe  the  separate  progress  of  the 
work  in  the  case  of  each  of  the  six  Epeiras 
mentioned  would  be  a  useless  repetition: 
all  six  employ  the  same  methods  and  weave 
similar  webs,  save  for  certain  details  that  shall 
be  set  forth  later.  I  will,  therefore,  sum  up 
in  the  aggregate  the  particulars  supplied  by 
one  or  other  of  them. 

My  subjects,  in  the  first  instance,  are  young 
and  boast  but  a  sHght  corporation,  very  far  re- 
moved from  what  it  will  be  in  the  late  autumn. 
The  belly,  the  wallet  containing  the  rope- 
works,  hardly  exceeds  a  peppercorn  in  bulk. 
This  slenderness  on  the  part  of  the  spinstresses 
must  not  prejudice  us  against  their  work :  there 
is  no  parity  between  their  skill  and  their  years. 
The  adult  Spiders,  with  their  disgraceful 
paunches,  can  do  no  better. 


The  Garden  Spiders:  Building  the  Web 

Moreover,  the  beginners  have  one  very 
precious  advantage  for  the  observer:  they 
work  by  day,  work  even  in  the  sun,  whereas  the 
old  ones  weave  only  at  night,  at  unseasonable 
hours.  The  first  show  us  the  secrets  of  their 
looms  Vv^ithout  much  difficulty;  the  others  con- 
ceal them  from  us.  Work  starts  in  July,  a 
couple  of  hours  before  sunset. 

The  spinstresses  of  my  enclosure  then  leave 
their  daytime  hiding-places,  select  their  posts 
and  begin  to  spin,  one  here,  another  there. 
There  are  many  of  them;  we  can  choose 
where  we  please.  Let  us  stop  in  front  of  this 
one,  whom  we  surprise  in  the  act  of  laying 
the  foundations  of  the  structure.  Without 
any  appreciable  order,  she  runs  about  the 
rosemary-hedge,  from  the  tip  of  one  branch 
to  another,  within  the  limits  of  some  eighteen 
inches.  Gradually,  she  puts  a  thread  in  posi- 
tion, drawing  it  from  her  wire-mill  with  the 
combs  attached  to  her  hind-legs.  This  pre- 
paratory work  presents  no  appearance  of  a 
concerted  plan.  The  Spider  comes  and  goes 
impetuously,  as  though  at  random;  she  goes 
up,  comes  down,  goes  up  again,  dives  down 
again  and  each  time  strengthens  the  points  of 
contact  with  intricate  moorings  distributed 
233 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

here  and  there.  The  result  is  a  scanty  and 
disordered  scaffolding. 

Is  disordered  the  word?  Perhaps  not. 
The  Epeira's  eye,  more  experienced  in  mat- 
ters of  this  sort  than  mine,  has  recognized 
the  general  lie  of  the  land;  and  the  rope- 
fabric  has  been  erected  accordingly:  it  is  very 
inaccurate  in  my  opinion,  but  very  suitable 
for  the  Spider's  designs.  What  is  it  that  she 
really  wants?  A  solid  frame  to  contain  the 
network  of  the  web.  The  shapeless  structure 
which  she  has  just  built  fulfils  the  desired  con- 
ditions: it  marks  out  a  flat,  free  and  perpen- 
dicular area.    This  is  all  that  is  necessary. 

The  whole  work,  for  that  matter,  is  now 
soon  completed;  it  is  done  all  over  again,  each 
evening,  from  top  to  bottom,  for  the  incidents 
of  the  chase  destroy  it  in  a  night.  The  net  is 
as  yet  too  delicate  to  resist  the  desperate 
struggles  of  the  captured  prey.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  adults'  net,  which  is  formed  of 
stouter  threads,  is  adapted  to  last  some  time; 
and  the  Epeira  gives  it  a  more  carefully- 
constructed  frame-work,  as  we  shall  see 
elsewhere. 

A  special  thread,  the  foundation  of  the 
real  net,  is  stretched  across  the  area  so  capri- 
234 


The  Garden  Spiders:  Building  the  Web 

iously  circumscribed.  It  Is  distinguished  from 
the  others  by  its  isolation,  its  position  at  a 
distance  from  any  twig  that  might  interfere 
with  its  swaying  length.  It  never  fails  to 
have,  in  the  middle,  a  thick  white  point, 
formed  of  a  little  silk  cushion.  This  is  the 
beacon  that  marks  the  centre  of  the  future 
edifice,  the  post  that  will  guide  the  Epeira  and 
bring  order  into  the  wilderness  of  twists  and 
turns. 

The  time  has  come  to  weave  the  hunting- 
snare.  The  Spider  starts  from  the  centre, 
which  bears  the  white  sign-post,  and,  running 
along  the  transversal  thread,  hurriedly 
reaches  the  circumference,  that  Is  to  say,  the 
Irregular  frame  enclosing  the  free  space.  Still 
with  the  same  sudden  movement,  she  rushes 
from  the  circumference  to  the  centre;  she 
starts  again  backwards  and  forwards,  makes 
for  the  right,  the  left,  the  top,  the  bottom; 
she  hoists  herself  up,  dives  down,  climbs  up 
again,  runs  down  and  always  returns  to  the 
central  landmark  by  roads  that  slant  In  the 
most  unexpected  manner.  Each  time  a  radius 
or  spoke  Is  laid,  here,  there,  or  elsewhere,  in 
what  looks  like  mad  disorder. 

The  operation  Is  so  erratically  conducted 

235 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

that  It  takes  the  most  unremitting  attention 
to  follow  it  at  all.  The  Spider  reaches  the 
margin  of  the  area  by  one  of  the  spokes  al- 
ready placed.  She  goes  along  this  margin  for 
some  distance  from  the  point  at  which  she 
landed,  fixes  her  thread  to  the  frame  and  re- 
turns to  the  centre  by  the  same  road  which 
she  has  just  taken. 

The  thread  obtained  on  the  way  In  a  broken 
line,  partly  on  the  radius  and  partly  on  the 
frame,  Is  too  long  for  the  exact  distance  be- 
tween the  circumference  and  the  central 
point.  On  returning  to  this  point,  the  Spider 
adjusts  her  thread,  stretches  It  to  the  correct 
length,  fixes  it  and  collects  what  remains  on 
the  central  sign-post.  In  the  case  of  each 
radius  laid,  the  surplus  Is  treated  In  the  same 
fashion,  so  that  the  sign-post  continues  to 
increase  in  size.  It  was  first  a  speck;  it  Is  now 
a  little  pellet,  or  even  a  small  cushion  of  a 
certain  breadth. 

We  shall  see  presently  what  becomes  of 
this  cushion  whereon  the  Spider,  that  nig- 
gardly housewife,  lays  her  saved-up  bits  of 
thread ;  for  the  moment,  we  will  note  that  the 
Epeira  works  it  up  with  her  legs  after  placing 
each  spoke,  teazles  It  with  her  claws,  mats  it 
236 


The  Garden  Spiders:  Building  the  Web 

into  felt  with  noteworthy  diligence.  In  so 
doing,  she  gives  the  spokes  a  solid  common 
support,  something  like  the  hub  of  our 
carriage-wheels. 

The  eventual  regularity  of  the  work  sug- 
gests that  the  radii  are  spun  in  the  same  order 
in  which  they  figure  in  the  web,  each  follow- 
ing immediately  upon  its  next  neighbour. 
Matters  pass  in  another  manner,  which  at 
first  looks  like  disorder,  but  which  is  really  a 
judicious  contrivance.  After  setting  a  few 
spokes  in  one  direction,  the  Epeira  runs  across 
to  the  other  side  to  draw  some  in  the  opposite 
direction.  These  sudden  changes  of  course 
are  highly  logical;  they  show  us  how  pro- 
ficient the  Spider  is  in  the  mechanics  of  rope- 
construction.  Were  they  to  succeed  one 
another  regularly,  the  spokes  of  one  group, 
having  nothing  as  yet  to  counteract  them, 
would  distort  the  work  by  their  straining, 
would  even  destroy  it  for  lack  of  a  stabler 
support.  Before  continuing,  it  is  necessary  to 
lay  a  converse  group  which  will  maintain  the 
whole  by  its  resistance.  Any  combination  of 
forces  acting  in  one  direction  must  be  forth- 
with neutralized  by  another  in  the  opposite 
direction.  This  is  what  our  statics  teach  us 
237 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

and  what  the  Spider  puts  into  practice ;  she  is 
a  past  mistress  of  the  secrets  of  rope-building, 
without  serving  an  apprenticeship. 

One  would  think  that  this  interrupted  and 
apparently  disordered  labour  must  result  in  a 
confused  piece  of  work.  Wrong:  the  rays 
are  equidistant  and  form  a  beautifully-regular 
orb.  Their  number  is  a  characteristic  mark 
of  the  different  species.  The  Angular  Epeira 
places  21  in  her  web,  the  Banded  Epeira  32, 
the  Silky  Epeira  42.  These  numbers  are  not 
absolutely  fixed;  but  the  variation  is  very 
slight. 

Now  which  of  us  would  undertake,  off- 
hand, without  much  preliminary  experiment 
and  without  measuring-instruments,  to  divide 
a  circle  into  a  given  quantity  of  sectors  of 
equal  width?  The  Epeirae,  though  v/eighted 
with  a  wallet  and  tottering  on  threads  shaken 
by  the  wind,  effect  the  delicate  division  with- 
out stopping  to  think.  They  achieve  it  by  a 
method  which  seems  mad  according  to  our 
notions  of  geometry.  Out  of  disorder  they 
evolve  order. 

We  must  not,  however,  give  them  more 
than  their  due.  The  angles  are  only  approx- 
imately equal;  they  satisfy  the  demands  of 
238 


The  Garden  Spiders:  Building  the  Web 

the  eye,  but  cannot  stand  the  test  of  strict 
measurement.  Mathematical  precision  would 
be  superfluous  here.  No  matter,  we  are 
amazed  at  the  result  obtained.  How  does 
the  Epeira  come  to  succeed  with  her  difficult 
problem,  so  strangely  managed?  I  am  still 
asking  myself  the  question. 

The  laying  of  the  radii  is  finished.  The 
Spider  takes  her  place  in  the  centre,  on  the 
little  cushion  formed  of  the  inaugural  sign- 
post and  the  bits  of  thread  left  over.  Sta- 
tioned on  this  support,  she  slowly  turns  round 
and  round.  She  is  engaged  on  a  delicate  piece 
of  work.  With  an  extremely  thin  thread,  she 
describes  from  spoke  to  spoke,  starting  from 
the  centre,  a  spiral  line  with  very  close  coils. 
The  central  space  thus  worked  attains,  in  the 
adults'  webs,  the  dimensions  of  the  palm  of 
one's  hand;  in  the  younger  Spiders'  webs,  it 
is  much  smaller,  but  it  is  never  absent.  For 
reasons  which  I  will  explain  in  the  course  of 
this  study,  I  shall  call  it,  in  future,  the 
'resting-floor.' 

The   thread   now   becomes   thicker.      The 

first  could  hardly  be  seen ;  the  second  is  plainly 

visible.     The  Spider  shifts  her  position  with 

great  slanting  strides,  turns  a  few  times,  mov- 

239 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

ing  farther  and  farther  from  the  centre,  fixes 
her  line  each  time  to  the  spoke  which  she 
crosses  and  at  last  comes  to  a  stop  at  the  lower 
edge  of  the  frame.  She  has  described  a  spiral 
with  coils  of  rapidly-increasing  width.  The 
average  distance  between  the  coils,  even  in 
the  structures  of  the  young  Epeirae,  is  one 
centimetre.^ 

Let  us  not  be  misled  by  the  word  'spiral,' 
which  conveys  the  notion  of  a  curved  line. 
All  curves  are  banished  from  the  Spiders' 
work;  nothing  is  used  but  the  straight  line  and 
its  combinations.  All  that  is  aimed  at  is  a 
polygonal  line  drawn  in  a  curve  as  geometry 
understands  it.  To  this  polygonal  line,  a 
work  destined  to  disappear  as  the  real  toils  are 
woven,  I  will  give  the  name  of  the  'auxiliary 
spiral.'  Its  object  is  to  supply  cross-bars, 
supporting  rungs,  especially  in  the  outer  zone, 
where  the  radii  are  too  distant  from  one 
another  to  afford  a  suitable  groundwork.  Its 
object  is  also  to  guide  the  Epeira  in  the  ex- 
tremely delicate  business  which  she  is  now 
about  to  undertake. 

But,  before  that,  one  last  task  becomes 
essential.    The  area  occupied  by  the  spokes  is 

*  .39  inch. — Translator's  Note. 
240 


The  Garden  Spiders:  Building  the  Web 

very  irregular,  being  marked  out  by  the  sup- 
ports of  the  branch,  which  are  infinitely 
variable.  There  are  angular  niches  which,  if 
skirted  too  closely,  would  disturb  the  sym- 
metry of  the  web  about  to  be  constructed. 
The  Epeira  needs  an  exact  space  wherein 
gradually  to  lay  her  spiral  thread.  More- 
over, she  must  not  leave  any  gaps  through 
which  her  prey  might  find  an  outlet. 

An  expert  in  these  matters,  the  Spider  soon 
knows  the  corners  that  have  to  be  filled  up. 
With  an  alternating  movement,  first  in  this 
direction,  then  in  that,  she  lays,  upon  the 
support  of  the  radii,  a  thread  that  forms  two 
acute  angles  at  the  lateral  boundaries  of  the 
faulty  part  and  describes  a  zigzag  line  not 
wholly  unlike  the  ornament  known  as  the  fret. 

The  sharp  corners  have  now  been  filled 
with  frets  on  every  side ;  the  time  has  come  to 
work  at  the  essential  part,  the  snaring-web 
for  which  all  the  rest  is  but  a  support.  Cling- 
ing on  the  one  hand  to  the  radii,  on  the  other 
to  the  chords  of  the  auxiliary  spiral,  the 
Epeira  covers  the  same  ground  as  when  lay- 
ing the  spiral,  but  in  the  opposite  direction: 
formerly,  she  moved  away  from  the  centre; 
now  she  moves  towards  it  and  with  closer  and 
241 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

more  numerous  circles.  She  starts  from  the 
base  of  the  auxiliary  spiral,  near  the  frame. 

What  follows  is  difficult  to  observe,  for  the 
movements  are  very  quick  and  spasmodic 
consisting  of  a  series  of  sudden  little  rushes, 
sways  and  bends  that  bewilder  the  eye.  It 
needs  continuous  attention  and  repeated 
examination  to  distinguish  the  progress  of  the 
work  however  slightly. 

The  two  hind-legs,  the  weaving  imple- 
ments, keep  going  constantly.  Let  us  name 
them  according  to  their  position  on  the  work= 
floor.  I  call  the  leg  that  faces  the  centre  of 
the  coil,  when  the  animal  moves,  the  'inner 
leg;'  the  one  outside  the  coil  the  'outer  leg.' 

The  latter  draws  the  thread  from  the  spin- 
neret and  passes  it  to  the  inner  leg,  which, 
with  a  graceful  movement,  lays  it  on  the 
radius  crossed.  At  the  same  time,  the  first 
leg  measures  the  distance;  it  grips  the  last  coil 
placed  in  position  and  brings  within  a  suitable 
range  that  point  of  the  radius  whereto  the 
thread  is  to  be  fixed.  As  soon  as  the  radius 
is  touched,  the  thread  sticks  to  it  by  its  own 
glue.  There  are  no  slow  operations,  no 
knots ;  the  fixing  is  done  of  itself. 

Meanwhile,  turning  by  narrow  degrees- 
242 


The  Garden  Spiders:  Building  the  Web 

the  splnstress  approaches  the  auxiliary  chords 
that  have  just  served  as  her  support.  When, 
in  the  end,  these  chords  become  too  close,  they 
will  have  to  go;  they  would  impair  the  sym- 
metry of  the  work.  The  Spider,  therefore, 
clutches  and  holds  on  to  the  rungs  of  a  higher 
row;  she  picks  up,  one  by  one,  as  she  goes 
along,  those  which  are  of  no  more  use  to  her 
and  gathers  them  into  a  fine-spun  ball  at  the 
contact-point  of  the  next  spoke.  Hence  arises 
a  series  of  silky  atoms  marking  the  course  of 
the  disappearing  spiral. 

The  light  has  to  fall  favourably  for  us  to 
perceive  these  specks,  the  only  remains  of  the 
ruined  auxiliary  thread.  One  would  take 
them  for  grains  of  dust,  If  the  faultless  reg- 
ularity of  their  distribution  did  not  remind 
us  of  the  vanished  spiral.  They  continue,  still 
visible,  until  the  final  collapse  of  the  net. 

And  the  Spider,  without  a  stop  of  any  kind, 
turns  and  turns  and  turns,  drawing  nearer  to 
the  centre  and  repeating  the  operation  of  fix- 
ing her  thread  at  each  spoke  which  she 
crosses.  A  good  half-hour,  an  hour  even 
among  the  full-grown  Spiders,  is  spent  on 
spiral  circles,  to  the  number  of  about  fifty  for 
the  web  of  the  Silky  Epeira  and  thirty  for 

243 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

those  of  the  Banded  and  the  Angular 
Epeira. 

At  last,  at  some  distance  from  the  centre, 
on  the  borders  of  what  I  have  called  the 
resting-floor,  the  Spider  abruptly  terminates 
her  spiral  when  the  space  would  still  allow  of 
a  certain  number  of  turns.  We  shall  see  the 
reason  of  this  sudden  stop  presently.  Next, 
the  Epeira,  no  matter  which,  young  or  old, 
hurriedly  flings  herself  upon  the  little  central 
cushion,  pulls  It  out  and  rolls  It  Into  a  ball 
which  I  expected  to  see  thrown  away.  But 
no:  her  thrifty  nature  does  not  permit  this 
waste.  She  eats  the  cushion,  at  first  an 
inaugural  landmark,  then  a  heap  of  bits  of 
thread;  she  once  more  melts  in  the  digestive 
crucible  what  is  no  doubt  intended  to  be  re- 
stored to  the  silken  treasury.  It  Is  a  tough 
mouthful,  difficult  for  the  stomach  to  elabo- 
rate; still,  it  is  precious  and  must  not  be  lost. 
The  work  finishes  with  the  swallowing.  Then 
and  there,  the  Spider  instals  herself,  head 
downwards,  at  her  hunting-post  in  the  centre 
of  the  web. 

The  operation  which  we  have  just  seen 
gives  rise  to  a  reflection.  Men  are  born  right- 
handed.  Thanks  to  a  lack  of  symmetry  that 
244 


The  Garden  Spiders:  Building  the  Web 

has  never  been  explained,  our  right  side  is 
stronger  and  readier  in  its  movements  than 
our  left.  The  inequality  is  especially  notice- 
able in  the  two  hands.  Our  language  ex- 
presses this  supremacy  of  the  favoured  side  in 
the  terms  dexterity,  adroitness  and  address, 
all  of  which  allude  to  the  right  hand. 

Is  the  animal,  on  its  side,  right-handed, 
left-handed,  or  unbiased?  We  have  had 
opportunities  of  showing  that  the  Cricket,  the 
Grasshopper  and  many  others  draw  their  bow, 
which  is  on  the  right  wing-case,  over  the 
sounding  apparatus,  which  is  on  the  left  wing- 
case.    They  are  right-handed. 

When  you  and  I  take  an  unpremeditated 
turn,  we  spin  round  on  our  right  heel.  The 
left  side,  the  weaker,  moves  on  the  pivot  of 
the  right,  the  stronger.  In  the  same  way, 
nearly  all  the  Molluscs  that  have  spiral  shells 
roll  their  coils  from  left  to  right.  Among  the 
numerous  species  in  both  land  and  water 
fauna,  only  a  very  few  are  exceptional  and 
turn  from  right  to  left. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  try  and  work  out 

to  what  extent  that  part  of  the   zoological 

kingdom  which  boasts  a  two-sided  structure  is 

divided   into    right-handed    and   left-handed 

24s 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

animals.  Can  dlssmymetry,  that  source  of 
contrasts,  be  a  general  rule?  Or  are  there 
neutrals,  endowed  with  equal  powers  of  skill 
and  energy  on  both  sides?  Yes,  there  are; 
and  the  Spider  is  one  of  them.  She  enjoys 
the  very  enviable  privilege  of  possessing  a  left 
side  which  is  no  less  capable  than  the  right. 
She  Is  ambidextrous,  as  witness  the  following 
observations. 

When  laying  her  snaring-thread,  every 
Epeira  turns  in  either  direction  indifferently, 
as  a  close  watch  will  prove.  Reasons  whose 
secret  escapes  us  determine  the  direction 
adopted.  Once  this  or  the  other  course  is 
taken,  the  spinstress  does  not  change  it,  even 
after  incidents  that  sometimes  occur  to  disturb 
the  progress  of  the  work.  It  may  happen 
that  a  Gnat  gets  caught  in  the  part  already 
woven.  The  Spider  thereupon  abruptly  in- 
terrupts her  labours,  hastens  up  to  the  prey, 
binds  It  and  then  returns  to  where  she  stopped 
and  continues  the  spiral  In  the  same  order  as 
before. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  work,  gyra- 
tion In  one  direction  being  employed  as  well 
as  gyration  In  the  other,  we  see  that,  when 
making  her  repeated  webs,  the  same  Epeira 
246 


The  Garden  Spiders:  Building  the  Web 

turns  now  her  right  side,  now  her  left  to  the 
centre  of  the  coil.  Well,  as  we  have  said,  it 
Is  always  with  the  inner  hind-leg,  the  leg 
nearer  the  centre,  that  is  to  say,  in  some  cases 
the  right  and  in  some  cases  the  left  leg,  that 
she  places  the  thread  in  position,  an  exceed- 
ingly delicate  operation  calling  for  the  dis- 
play of  exquisite  skill,  because  of  the  quickness 
of  the  action  and  the  need  for  preserving 
strictly  equal  distances.  Any  one  seeing  this 
leg  working  with  such  extreme  precision,  the 
right  leg  to-day,  the  left  to-morrow,  be- 
comes convinced  that  the  Epeira  is  highly 
ambidextrous. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    GARDEN    SPIDERS:    MY    NEIGHBOUR 

A  GE  does  not  modify  the  Epeira's  talent 
■^  ^  In  any  essential  feature.  As  the  young 
worked,  so  do  the  old,  the  richer  by  a 
year's  experience.  There  are  no  masters  nor 
apprentices  in  their  guild;  all  know  their  craft 
from  the  moment  that  the  first  thread  is  laid. 
We  have  learnt  something  from  the  novices: 
let  us  now  look  into  the  matter  of  their  elders 
and  see  what  additional  task  the  needs  of  age 
impose  upon  them. 

July  comes  and  gives  me  exactly  what  I 
wish  for.  While  the  new  inhabitants  are 
twisting  their  ropes  on  the  rosemaries  in  the 
enclosure,  one  evening,  by  the  last  gleams  of 
twilight,  I  discover  a  splendid  Spider,  with  a 
mighty  belly,  just  outside  my  door.  This  one 
is  a  matron;  she  dates  back  to  last  year;  her 
majestic  corpulence,  so  exceptional  at  this 
season,  proclaims  the  fact.  I  know  her 
for  the  Angular  Epeira  {Epeira  angulata, 
Walck.),  clad  In  grey  and  girdled  with  two 
dark  stripes  that  meet  in  a  point  at  the  back. 
248 


The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

The  base  of  her  abdomen  swells  Into  a  short 
nipple  on  either  side. 

This  neighbour  will  certainly  serve  my 
turn,  provided  that  she  do  not  work  too  late 
at  night.  Things  bode  well:  I  catch  the 
buxom  one  In  the  act  of  laying  her  first 
threads.  At  this  rate,  my  success  need  not  be 
won  at  the  expense  of  sleep.  And,  In  fact,  I 
am  able,  throughout  the  month  of  July  and 
the  greater  part  of  August,  from  eight  to  ten 
o'clock  In  the  evening,  to  watch  the  construc- 
tion of  the  web,  which  Is  more  or  less  ruined 
nightly  by  the  Incidents  of  the  chase  and 
built  up  again,  next  day,  when  too  seriously 
dilapidated. 

During  the  two  stifling  months,  when  the 
light  falls  and  a  spell  of  coolness  follows  upon 
the  furnace-heat  of  the  day.  It  Is  easy  for  me, 
lantern  In  hand,  to  watch  my  neighbour's 
various  operations.  She  has  taken  up  her 
abode,  at  a  convenient  height  for  observation, 
between  a  row  of  cypress-trees  and  a  clump  of 
laurels,  near  the  entrance  to  an  alley  haunted 
by  Moths.  The  spot  appears  well-chosen,  for 
the  Epeira  does  not  change  It  throughout  the 
season,  though  she  renews  her  net  almost 
every  night. 

249 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Punctually  as  darkness  falls,  our  whole 
family  goes  and  calls  upon  her.  Big  and 
little,  we  stand  amazed  at  her  wealth  of  belly 
and  her  exuberant  somersaults  in  the  maze  of 
quivering  ropes;  we  admire  the  faultless 
geometry  of  the  net  as  it  gradually  takes 
shape.  All  agleam  in  the  lantern-light,  the 
work  becomes  a  fairy  orb,  which  seems  woven 
of  moonbeams. 

Should  I  linger,  in  my  anxiety  to  clear  up 
certain  details,  the  household,  which  by  this 
time  is  in  bed,  waits  for  my  return  before 
going  to  sleep : 

'What  has  she  been  doing  this  evening?' 
I  am  asked.  'Has  she  finished  her  web?  Has 
she  caught  a  Moth  ?' 

I  describe  what  has  happened.  To-morrow, 
they  will  be  in  a  less  hurry  to  go  to  bed :  they 
will  want  to  see  everything,  to  the  very  end. 
What  delightful,  simple  evenings  we  have 
spent  looking  into  the  Spider's  workshop ! 

The  journal  of  the  Angular  Epeira, 
written  up  day  by  day,  teaches  us,  first  of  all, 
how  she  obtains  the  ropes  that  form  the 
frame-work  of  the  building.  All  day  in- 
visible, crouching  amid  the  cypress-leaves,  the 
Spider,  at  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening, 

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The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

Bolemnly  emerges  from  her  retreat  and  makes 
for  the  top  of  a  branch.  In  this  exalted  posi- 
tion, she  sits  for  some  time  laying  her  plans 
with  due  regard  to  the  locality;  she  consults 
the  weather,  ascertains  if  the  night  will  be  fine. 
Then,  suddenly,  with  her  eight  legs  wide- 
spread, she  lets  herself  drop  straight  down, 
hanging  to  the  line  that  issues  from  her  spin- 
nerets. Just  as  the  rope-maker  obtains  the 
even  output  of  his  hemp  by  walking  back- 
wards, so  does  the  Epeira  obtain  the  discharge 
of  hers  by  falling.  It  is  extracted  by  the 
weight  of  her  body. 

The  descent,  however,  has  not  the  brute 
speed  which  the  force  of  gravity  would  give 
it,  if  uncontrolled.  It  is  governed  by  the 
action  of  the  spinnerets,  which  contract  or  ex- 
pand their  pores,  or  close  them  entirely,  at 
the  faller's  pleasure.  And  so,  with  gentle 
moderation,  she  pays  out  this  living  plumb- 
line,  of  which  my  lantern  clearly  shows  me 
the  plumb,  but  not  always  the  line.  The  great 
squab  seems  at  such  times  to  be  sprawling  in 
space,  without  the  least  support. 

She  comes  to  an  abrupt  stop  two  inches 
from  the  ground ;  the  silk-reel  ceases  working. 
The  Spider  turns  round,  clutches  the  line 
351 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

which  she  has  just  obtained  and  climbs  up  by 
this  road,  still  spinning.  But,  this  time,  as 
she  is  no  longer  assisted  by  the  force  of 
gravity,  the  thread  is  extracted  in  another 
manner.  The  two  hind-legs,  with  a  quick 
alternate  action,  draw  it  from  the  wallet  and 
let  it  go. 

On  returning  to  her  starting-point,  at  a 
height  of  six  feet  or  more,  the  Spider  is  now 
in  possession  of  a  double  line,  bent  into  a  loop 
and  floating  loosely  in  a  current  of  air.  She 
fixes  her  end  where  it  suits  her  and  waits 
until  the  other  end,  wafted  by  the  wind,  has 
fastened  its  loop  to  the  adjacent  twigs. 

The  desired  result  may  be  very  slow  in 
coming.  It  does  not  tire  the  unfailing 
patience  of  the  Epeira,  but  it  soon  wears  out 
mine.  And  it  has  happened  to  me  sometimes 
to  collaborate  with  the  Spider.  I  pick  up  the 
floating  loop  with  a  straw  and  lay  it  on 
a  branch,  at  a  convenient  height.  The  foot- 
bridge erected  with  my  assistance  is  con- 
sidered satisfactory,  just  as  though  the  wind 
had  placed  it.  I  count  this  collaboration 
among  the  good  actions  standing  to  my  credit. 

Feeling  her  thread  fixed,  the  Epeira  runs 
along  it  repeatedly,  from  end  to  end,  adding 
252 


The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

a  fibre  to  it  on  each  journey.  Whether  I  help 
or  not,  this  forms  the  'suspension-cable,'  the 
main  piece  of  the  frame-work.  I  call  it  a 
cable,  in  spite  of  its  extreme  thinness,  because 
of  its  structure.  It  looks  as  though  it  were 
single,  but,  at  the  two  ends,  it  is  seen  to  divide 
and  spread,  tuft-wise,  into  numerous  constit- 
uent parts,  which  are  the  product  of  as  many 
crossings.  These  diverging  fibres,  with  their 
several  contact-points,  increase  the  steadiness 
of  the  two  extremities. 

The  suspension-cable  is  incomparably 
stronger  than  the  rest  of  the  work  and  lasts 
for  an  indefinite  time.  The  web  is  generally 
shattered  after  the  night's  hunting  and  is 
nearly  always  rewoven  on  the  following 
evening.  After  the  removal  of  the  wreckage, 
it  is  made  all  over  again,  on  the  same  site, 
cleared  of  everything  except  the  cable  from 
which  the  new  network  is  to  hang. 

The  laying  of  this  cable  is  a  somewhat 
difficult  matter,  because  the  success  of  the  en- 
terprise does  not  depend  upon  the  animal's 
industry  alone.  It  has  to  wait  until  a  breeze 
carries  the  line  to  the  pier-head  in  the  bushes. 
Sometimes,  a  calm  prevails;  sometimes,  the 
thread  catches  at  an  unsuitable  point.  This 
253 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Involves  great  expenditure  of  time,  with  no 
certainty  of  success.  And  so,  when  once  the 
suspension-cable  is  In  being,  well  and  solidly 
placed,  the  Epeira  does  not  change  It,  except 
on  critical  occasions.  Every  evening,  she 
passes  and  repasses  over  It,  strengthening  It 
with  fresh  threads. 

When  the  Epeira  cannot  manage  a  fall  of 
sufficient  depth  to  give  her  the  double  line 
with  Its  loop  to  be  fixed  at  a  distance,  she  em- 
ploys another  method.  She  lets  herself  down 
and  then  climbs  up  again,  as  we  have  already 
seen;  but,  this  time,  the  thread  ends  suddenly 
in  a  filmy  hair-pencil,  a  tuft,  whose  parts 
remain  disjoined,  just  as  they  come  from  the 
spinneret's  rose.  Then  this  sort  of  bushy 
fox's  brush  is  cut  short,  as  though  with  a  pair 
of  scissors,  and  the  whole  thread,  when  un- 
furled, doubles  Its  length,  which  Is  now 
enough  for  the  purpose.  It  Is  fastened  by 
the  end  joined  to  the  Spider;  the  other  floats 
In  the  air,  with  Its  spreading  tuft,  which  easily 
tangles  In  the  bushes.  Even  so  must  the 
Banded  Epeira  go  to  work  when  she  throws 
her  daring  suspension-bridge  across  a  stream. 

Once  the  cable  is  laid.  In  this  way  or  In 
that,  the  Spider  Is  in  possession  of  a  base  that 

254 


The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

allows  her  to  approach  or  withdraw  from  the 
leafy  piers  at  will.  From  the  height  of  the 
cable,  the  upper  boundary  of  the  projected 
works,  she  lets  herself  slip  to  a  slight  depth, 
varying  the  points  of  her  fall.  She  climbs  up 
again  by  the  line  produced  by  her  descent. 
The  result  of  the  operation  is  a  double  thread 
which  is  unwound  while  the  Spider  walks 
along  her  big  foot-bridge  to  the  contact- 
branch,  where  she  fixes  the  free  end  of  her 
thread  more  or  less  low  down.  In  this  way, 
she  obtains,  to  right  and  left,  a  few  slanting 
cross-bars,  connecting  the  cable  with  the 
branches. 

These  cross-bars,  in  their  turn,  support 
others  in  ever-changing  directions.  When 
there  are  enough  of  them,  the  Epeira  need 
no  longer  resort  to  falls  in  order  to  extract  her 
threads;  she  goes  from  one  cord  to  the  next, 
always  wire-drawing  with  her  hind-legs  and 
placing  her  produce  in  position  as  she  goes. 
This  results  in  a  combination  of  straight  lines 
owning  no  order,  save  that  they  are  kept  in 
one,  nearly  perpendicular  plane.  They  mark 
a  very  irregular  polygonal  area,  wherein  the 
web,  itself  a  work  of  magnificent  regularity, 
shall  presently  be  woven. 
255 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

It  is  unnecessary  to  go  over  the  construc- 
tion of  the  masterpiece  again;  the  younger 
Spiders  have  taught  us  enough  in  this  respect. 
In  both  cases,  we  see  the  same  equidistant 
radii  laid,  with  a  central  landmark  for  a 
guide;  the  same  auxiliary  spiral,  the  scaffold- 
ing of  temporary  rungs,  soon  doomed  to  dis- 
appear; the  same  snaring-spiral,  with  its  maze 
of  closely-woven  coils.  Let  us  pass  on :  other 
details  call  for  our  attention. 

The  laying  of  the  snaring-spiral  is  an  ex- 
ceedingly delicate  operation,  because  of  the 
regularity  of  the  work.  I  was  bent  upon 
knowing  whether,  if  subjected  to  the  din  of 
unaccustomed  sounds,  the  Spider  would 
hesitate  and  blunder.  Does  she  work  imper- 
turbably?  Or  does  she  need  undisturbed 
quiet?  As  It  Is,  I  know  that  my  presence  and 
that  of  my  light  hardly  trouble  her  at  all. 
The  sudden  flashes  emitted  by  my  lantern 
have  no  power  to  distract  her  from  her  task. 
She  continues  to  turn  In  the  light  even  as  she 
turned  in  the  dark,  neither  faster  nor  slower. 
This  is  a  good  omen  for  the  experiment  which 
I  have  In  view. 

The  first  Sunday  In  August  Is  the  feast  of 
the  patron  saint  of  the  village,  commemorat- 
256 


The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

ing  the  Finding  of  St.  Stephen.  This  is  Tues- 
day, the  third  day  of  the  rejoicings.  There 
will  be  fireworks  to-night,  at  nine  o'clock,  to 
conclude  the  merry-makings.  They  will  take 
place  on  the  high-road  outside  my  door,  at  a 
few  steps  from  the  spot  where  my  Spider  is 
working.  The  spinstress  is  busy  upon  her 
great  spiral  at  the  very  moment  when  the 
village  big-wigs  arrive  with  trumpet  and 
drum  and  small  boys  carrying  torches. 

More  Interested  in  animal  psychology  than 
in  pyrotechnlcal  displays.  I  watch  the 
Epeira's  doings,  lantern  in  hand.  The  hul- 
labaloo of  the  crowd,  the  reports  of  the 
mortars,  the  crackle  of  Roman  candles  burst- 
ing In  the  sky,  the  hiss  of  the  rockets,  the  rain 
of  sparks,  the  sudden  flashes  of  white,  red  or 
blue  light:  none  of  this  disturbs  the  worker, 
who  methodically  turns  and  turns  again,  just 
as  she  does  in  the  peace  of  ordinary  evenings. 

Once  before,  the  gun  which  I  fired  under 
the  plane-trees  failed  to  trouble  the  concert  of 
the  CIcadse;  to-day,  the  dazzling  light  of  the 
fire-wheels  and  the  splutter  of  the  crackers  do 
not  avail  to  distract  the  Spider  from  her 
weaving.  And,  after  all,  what  difference 
would  it  make  to  my  neighbour  if  the  world 
257 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

fell  in !  The  village  could  be  blown  up  with 
dynamite,  without  her  losing  her  head  for 
such  a  trifle.  She  would  calmly  go  on  with 
her  web. 

Let  us  return  to  the  Spider  manufacturing 
her  net  under  the  usual  tranquil  conditions. 
The  great  spiral  has  been  finished,  abruptly, 
on  the  confines  of  the  resting-floor.  The 
central  cushion,  a  mat  of  ends  of  saved 
thread,  is  next  pulled  up  and  eaten.  But,  be- 
fore indulging  in  this  mouthful,  which  closes 
the  proceedings,  two  Spiders,  the  only  two  of 
the  order,  the  Banded  and  the  Silky  Epeira, 
have  still  to  sign  their  work.  A  broad,  white 
ribbon  is  laid,  in  a,  thick  zigzag,  from  the 
centre  to  the  lower  edge  of  the  orb.  Some- 
times, but  not  always,  a  second  band  of  the 
same  shape  and  of  lesser  length  occupies  the 
upper  portion,  opposite  the  first. 

I  like  to  look  upon  these  odd  flourishes  as 
consolidating-gear.  To  begin  with,  the  young 
Epeirse  never  use  them.  For  the  moment, 
heedless  of  the  future  and  lavish  of  their  silk, 
they  remake  their  web  nightly,  even  though 
it  be  none  too  much  dilapidated  and  might 
well  serve  again.  A  brand-new  snare  at  sun- 
set is  the  rule  with  them.  And  there  is  little 
258 


The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

need  for  increased  solidity  when  the  work  has 
to  be  done  again  on  the  morrow. 

On  the  other  hand,  in  the  late  autumn,  the 
full-grown  Spiders,  feeling  laying-time  at 
hand,  are  driven  to  practise  economy,  in  view 
of  the  great  expenditure  of  silk  required  for 
the  egg-bag.  Owing  to  its  large  size,  the  net 
now  becomes  a  costly  work  which  it  were  well 
to  use  as  long  as  possible,  for  fear  of  finding 
one's  reserves  exhausted  when  the  time  comes 
for  the  expensive  construction  of  the  nest. 
For  this  reason,  or  for  others  which  escape 
me,  the  Banded  and  the  Silky  Epeirae  think  it 
wise  to  produce  durable  work  and  to 
strengthen  their  toils  with  a  cross-ribbon. 
The  other  Epeirae,  who  are  put  to  less  ex- 
pense in  the  fabrication  of  their  maternal 
wallet — a  mere  pill — are  unacquainted  with 
the  zigzag  binder  and,  like  the  younger 
Spiders,  reconstruct  their  web  almost  nightly. 

My  fat  neighbour,  the  Angular  Epeira, 
consulted  by  the  light  of  a  lantern,  shall  tell 
us  how  the  renewal  of  the  net  proceeds.  As 
the  twilight  fades,  she  comes  down  cautiously 
from  her  day-dwelling;  she  leaves  the  foliage 
of  the  cypresses  for  the  suspension-cable  of 
her  snare.  Here  she  stands  for  some  time; 
259 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

then,  descending  to  her  web,  she  collects  the 
wreckage  in  great  armfuls.  Ever^^thing — 
spiral,  spokes  and  frame — is  raked  up  with 
her  legs.  One  thing  alone  is  spared  and  that 
is  the  suspension-cable,  the  sturdy  piece  of 
work  that  has  served  as  a  foundation  for  the 
previous  buildings  and  will  serve  for  the 
new  after  receiving  a  few  strengthening 
repairs. 

The  collected  ruins  form  a  pill  which  the 
Spider  consumes  with  the  same  greed  that  she 
would  show  in  swallowing  her  prey.  Noth- 
ing remains.  This  is  the  second  instance  of 
the  Spiders'  supreme  economy  of  their  silk. 
We  have  seen  them,  after  the  manufacture  of 
the  net,  eating  the  central  guide-post,  a 
modest  mouthful;  we  now  see  them  gobbling 
up  the  whole  web,  a  meal.  Refined  and 
turned  into  fluid  by  the  stomach,  the  materials 
of  the  old  net  will  serve  for  other  purposes. 

As  soon  as  the  site  is  thoroughly  cleared, 
the  work  of  the  frame  and  the  net  begins  on 
the  support  of  the  suspension-cable  which  was 
respected.  Would  it  not  be  simpler  to  restore 
the  old  web,  which  might  serve  many  times 
yet,  if  a  few  rents  were  just  repaired?  One 
would  say  so;  but  does  the  Spider  know  how 
a6o 


The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

to  patch  her  work,  as  a  thrifty  housewife 
darns  her  linen?    That  is  the  question. 

To  mend  severed  meshes,  to  replace  broken 
threads,  to  adjust  the  new  to  the  old,  in 
short,  to  restore  the  original  order  by  assem- 
bling the  wreckage  would  be  a  far-reaching 
feat  of  prowess,  a  very  line  proof  of  gleams 
of  Intelligence,  capable  of  performing  ra- 
tional calculations.  Our  menders  excel  in  this 
class  of  work.  They  have  as  their  guide  their 
sense,  which  measures  the  holes,  cuts  the  new 
piece  to  size  and  fits  it  into  its  proper  place. 
Does  the  Spider  possess  the  counterpart  of  this 
habit  of  clear  thinking? 

People  declare  as  much,  without,  ap- 
parently, looking  into  the  matter  very  closely. 
They  seem  able  to  dispense  with  the  con- 
scientious observer's  scruples,  when  inflating 
their  bladder  of  theory.  They  go  straight 
ahead;  and  that  is  enough.  As  for  ourselves, 
less  greatly  daring,  we  will  first  enquire;  we 
will  see  by  experiment  if  the  Spider  really 
knows  how  to  repair  her  work. 

The  Angular  Epeira,  that  near  neighbour 

who  has  already  supplied  me  with  so  many 

documents,  has  just  finished  her  web,  at  nine 

o'clock  in  the  evening.     It  Is  a  splendid  night, 

261 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

calm  and  warm,  favourable  to  the  rounds  of 
the  Moths.  All  promises  good  hunting.  At 
the  moment  when,  after  completing  the  great 
spiral,  the  Epeira  is  about  to  eat  the  central 
cushion  and  settle  down  upon  her  resting- 
floor,  I  cut  the  web  in  two,  diagonally,  with 
a  pair  of  sharp  scissors.  The  sagging  of  the 
spokes,  deprived  of  their  counter-agents,  pro- 
duces an  empty  space,  wide  enough  for  three 
fingers  to  pass  through. 

The  Spider  retreats  to  her  cable  and  looks 
on,  without  being  greatly  frightened.  When 
I  have  done,  she  quietly  returns.  She  takes 
her  stand  on  one  of  the  halves,  at  the  spot 
which  was  the  centre  of  the  original  orb ;  but, 
as  her  legs  find  no  footing  on  one  side,  she 
soon  realizes  that  the  snare  is  defective. 
Thereupon,  two  threads  are  stretched  across 
the  breach,  two  threads,  no  more;  the  legs 
that  lacked  a  foothold  spread  across  them; 
and  henceforth  the  Epeira  moves  no  more, 
devoting  her  attention  to  the  incidents  of  the 
chase. 

When  I  saw  those  two  threads  laid,  joining 
the  edges  of  the  rent,  I  began  to  hope  that  I 
was  to  witness  a  mending-process : 

'The  Spider,'  said  I  to  myself,  'will  increase 
262 


The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

the  number  of  those  cross-threads  from  end  to 
end  of  the  breach;  and,  though  the  added 
piece  may  not  match  the  rest  of  the  work,  at 
least  it  will  fill  the  gap  and  the  continuous 
sheet  will  be  of  the  same  use  practically  as  the 
regular  web.' 

The  reality  did  not  answer  to  my  expecta- 
tion. The  spinstress  made  no  further  en- 
deavour all  night.  She  hunted  with  her  riven 
net,  for  what  it  was  worth;  for  I  found  the 
web  next  morning  in  the  same  condition 
wherein  I  had  left  it  on  the  night  before. 
There  had  been  no  mending  of  any  kind. 

The  two  threads  stretched  across  the  breach 
even  must  not  be  taken  for  an  attempt  at 
repairing.  Finding  no  foothold  for  her  legs 
on  one  side,  the  Spider  went  to  look  into  the 
state  of  things  and,  in  so  doing,  crossed  the 
rent.  In  going  and  returning,  she  left  a 
thread,  as  is  the  custom  with  all  the  Epeirae 
when  walking.  It  was  not  a  deliberate  mend- 
ing, but  the  mere  result  of  an  uneasy  change 
of  place. 

Perhaps    the    subject    of    my    experiment 

thought  it  unnecessary  to  go  to  fresh  trouble 

and  expense,  for  the  web  can  serve  quite  well 

as  it  is,  after  my  scissor-cut:    the  two  halves 

263 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

together  represent  the  original  snaring- 
surface.  All  that  the  Spider^  seated  in  a 
central  position,  need  do  is  to  find  the  requisite 
support  for  her  spread  legs.  The  two  threads 
stretched  from  side  to  side  of  the  cleft  supply 
her  with  this,  or  nearly.  My  mischief  did 
not  go  far  enough.  Let  us  devise  something 
better. 

Next  day,  the  web  is  renewed,  after  the  old 
one  has  been  swallowed.  When  the  work  is 
done  and  the  Epeira  seated  motionless  at  her 
central  post,  I  take  a  straw  and,  wielding  it 
dexterously,  so  as  to  respect  the  resting-floor 
and  the  spokes,  I  pull  and  root  up  the  spiral, 
which  dangles  in  tatters.  With  its  snaring- 
threads  ruined,  the  net  is  useless;  no  passing 
Moth  would  allow  herself  to  be  caught. 
Now  what  does  the  Epeira  do  in  the  face  of 
this  disaster?  Nothing  at  all.  Motionless  on 
her  resting-floor,  which  I  have  left  intact,  she 
awaits  the  capture  of  the  game;  she  awaits  it 
all  night  in  vain  on  her  impotent  web.  In  the 
morning,  I  find  the  snare  as  I  left  it.  Neces- 
sity, the  mother  of  invention,  has  not 
prompted  the  Spider  to  make  a  slight  repair 
in  her  ruined  toils. 

Possibly  this  is  asking  too  much  of  her 
264 


The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

resources.  The  silk-glands  may  be  exhausted 
after  the  laying  of  the  great  spiral;  and  to 
repeat  the  same  expenditure  immediately  is 
out  of  the  question.  I  want  a  case  where- 
in there  could  be  no  appeal  to  any  such 
exhaustion.  I  obtain  it,  thanks  to  my 
assiduity. 

While  I  am  watching  the  rolling  of  the 
spiral,  a  head  of  game  rushes  full  tilt  into  the 
unfinished  snare.  The  Epeira  Interrupts  her 
work,  hurries  to  the  giddy-pate,  swathes  him 
and  takes  her  fill  of  him  where  he  lies.  Dur- 
ing the  struggle,  a  section  of  the  web  has  torn 
under  the  weaver's  very  eyes.  A  great  gap 
endangers  the  satisfactory  working  of  the  net. 
What  will  the  spider  do  in  the  presence  of 
this  grievous  rent? 

Now  or  never  is  the  time  to  repair  the 
broken  threads:  the  accident  has  happened 
this  very  moment,  between  the  animal's  legs; 
it  is  certainly  known  and,  moreover,  the  rope- 
works  are  in  full  swing.  This  time  there  is 
no  question  of  the  exhaustion  of  the  silk- 
warehouse. 

Well,  under  these  conditions,  so  favorable 
to  darning,  the  Epeira  does  no  mending  at 
all.  She  flings  aside  her  prey,  after  taking  a 
265 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

few  sips  at  it,  and  resumes  her  spiral  at  the 
point  where  she  interrupted  it  to  attack  the 
Moth.  The  torn  part  remains  as  it  is.  The 
machine-shuttle  in  our  looms  does  not  revert 
to  the  spoiled  fabric;  even  so  with  the  Spider 
working  at  her  web. 

And  this  is  no  case  of  distraction,  of 
individual  carelessness;  all  the  large  spin- 
stresses  suffer  from  a  similar  incapacity  for 
patching.  The  Banded  Epeira  and  the  Silky 
Epeira  are  noteworthy  in  this  respect.  The 
Angular  Epeira  remakes  her  web  nearly  every 
evening ;  the  other  two  reconstruct  theirs  only 
very  seldom  and  use  them  even  when 
extremely  dilapidated.  They  go  on  hunting 
with  shapeless  rags.  Before  they  bring  them- 
selves to  weave  a  new  web,  the  old  one  has  to 
be  ruined  beyond  recognition.  Well,  I  have 
often  noted  the  state  of  one  of  these  ruins 
and,  the  next  morning,  I  have  found  it  as  it 
was,  or  even  more  dilapidated.  Never  any 
repairs;  never;  never.  I  am  sorry,  because 
of  the  reputation  which  our  hard-pressed 
theorists  have  given  her,  but  the  Spider  is 
absolutely  unable  to  mend  her  work.  In 
spite  of  her  thoughtful  appearance,  the  Epeira 
is  incapable  of  the  modicum  of  reflexion 
266 


The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

required  to  insert  a  piece  into  an  accidental 

gap. 

Other  Spiders  are  unacquainted  with  wide- 
meshed  nets  and  weave  satins  wherein  the 
threads,  crossing  at  random,  form  a  contin- 
uous substance.  Among  this  number  is  the 
House  Spider  {Tegenaria  domestica,  LiN.). 
In  the  corners  of  our  rooms,  she  stretches 
wide  webs  fixed  by  angular  extensions.  The 
best-protected  nook  at  one  side  contains  the 
owner's  secret  apartment.  It  is  a  silk  tube, 
a  gallery  with  a  conical  opening,  whence  the 
Spider,  sheltered  from  the  eye,  watches 
events.  The  rest  of  the  fabric,  which  exceeds 
our  finest  muslins  in  delicacy,  is  not,  properly 
speaking,  a  hunting-implement:  It  is  a  plat- 
form whereon  the  Spider,  attending  to  the 
affairs  of  her  estate,  goes  her  rounds,  espe- 
cially at  night.  The  real  trap  consists  of  a 
confusion  of  lines  stretched  above  the  web. 

The  snare,  constructed  according  to  other 
rules  than  in  the  case  of  the  Epeirse,  also 
works  differently.  Here  are  no  viscous 
threads,  but  plain  toils,  rendered  invisible  by 
their  very  number.  If  a  Gnat  rush  into  the 
perfidious  entanglement,  he  is  caught  at  once ; 
and  the  more  he  struggles  the  more  firmly  is 
267 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

he  bound.  The  snareling  falls  on  the  sheet- 
web.  Tegenaria  hastens  up  and  bites  him  in 
the  neck. 

Having  said  this,  let  us  experiment  a  little. 
In  the  web  of  the  House  Spider,  I  make  a 
round  hole,  two  fingers  wide.  The  hole  re- 
mains yawning  all  day  long;  but  next  morning 
it  is  invariably  closed.  An  extremely  thin 
gauze  covers  the  breach,  the  dark  appearance 
of  which  contrasts  with  the  dense  whiteness 
of  the  surrounding  fabric.  The  gauze  is  so 
delicate  that,  to  make  sure  of  Its  presence,  I 
use  a  straw  rather  than  my  eyes.  The  move- 
ment of  the  web,  when  this  part  is  touched, 
proves  the  presence  of  an  obstacle. 

Here,  the  matter  would  appear  obvious. 
The  House  Spider  has  mended  her  work  dur- 
ing the  night ;  she  has  put  a  patch  in  the  torn 
stuff,  a  talent  unknown  to  the  Garden  Spiders. 
It  would  be  greatly  to  her  credit,  if  a  more 
attentive  study  did  not  lead  to  another 
conclusion. 

The  web  of  the  House  Spider  is,  as  we 
were  saying,  a  platform  for  watching  and 
exploring;  it  is  also  a  sheet  Into  which  the 
Insects  caught  in  the  overhead  rigging  fall. 
This  surface,  a  domain  subject  to  unlimited 
268 


The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

shocks,  is  never  strong  enough,  especially  as 
it  is  exposed  to  the  additional  burden  of  little 
bits  of  plaster  loosened  from  the  wall.  The 
owner  is  constantly  working  at  it;  she  adds  a 
new  layer  nightly. 

Every  time  that  she  issues  from  her  tubular 
retreat  or  returns  to  it,  she  fixes  the  thread 
that  hangs  behind  her  upon  the  road  covered. 
As  evidence  of  this  work,  we  have  the  direc- 
tion of  the  surface-lines,  all  of  which,  whether 
straight  or  winding,  according  to  the  fancies 
that  guide  the  Spider's  path,  converge  upon 
the  entrance  of  the  tube.  Each  step  taken, 
beyond  a  doubt,  adds  a  filament  to  the  web. 

We  have  here  the  story  of  the  Procession- 
ary  of  the  Pine,^  whose  habits  I  have  related 
elsewhere.  When  the  caterpillars  leave  the 
silk  pouch,  to  go  and  browse  at  night,  and 
also  when  they  enter  it  again,  they  never  fail 
to  spin  a  little  on  the  surface  of  their  nest. 
Each  expedition  adds  to  the  thickness  of  the 
wall. 

When  moving  this  way  or  that  upon  the 
purse  which  I  have  split  from  top  to  bottom 
with  my  scissors,  the  Processionaries  upholster 

*  The  Processionaries  are  Moth-caterpillars  that  feed 
on  various  leaves  and  march  in  file,  laying  a  silken  trail 
as  they  go. — Translator's  Note. 
269 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  breach  even  as  they  upholster  the  un- 
touched part,  without  paying  more  attention 
to  it  than  to  the  rest  of  the  wall.  Caring 
nothing  about  the  accident,  they  behave  in 
the  same  way  as  on  a  non-gutted  dwelling. 
The  crevice  is  closed,  in  course  of  time,  not 
intentionally,  but  solely  by  the  action  of  the 
usual  spinning. 

We  arrive  at  the  same  conclusion  on  the 
subject  of  the  House  Spider.  Walking  about 
her  platform  every  night,  she  lays  fresh 
courses  without  drawing  a  distinction  between 
the  solid  and  the  hollow.  She  has  not 
deliberately  put  a  patch  in  the  torn  texture; 
she  has  simply  gone  on  with  her  ordinary 
business.  If  it  happen  that  the  hole  is  even- 
tually closed,  this  fortunate  result  is  the  out- 
come not  of  a  special  purpose,  but  of  an 
unvarying  method  of  work. 

Besides,  it  is  evident  that,  if  the  Spider 
really  wished  to  mend  her  web,  all  her 
endeavours  would  be  concentrated  upon  the 
rent.  She  would  devote  to  it  all  the  silk  at 
her  disposal  and  obtain  in  one  sitting  a  piece 
very  like  the  rest  of  the  web.  Instead  of  that, 
what  do  we  find  ?  Almost  nothing :  a  hardly 
visible  gauze. 

230 


The  Garden  Spiders:  My  Neighbour 

The  thing  Is  obvious:  the  Spider  did  on 
that  rent  what  she  did  every  elsewhere, 
neither  more  nor  less.  Far  from  squandering 
silk  upon  it,  she  saved  her  silk  so  as  to  have 
enough  for  the  whole  web.  The  gap  will  be 
better  mended,  little  by  little,  afterwards,  as 
the  sheet  is  strengthened  all  over  with  new 
layers.  And  this  will  take  long.  Two  months 
later,  the  window — my  work — still  shows 
through  and  makes  a  dark  stain  against  the 
dead-white  of  the  fabric. 

Neither  weavers  nor  spinners,  therefore, 
know  how  to  repair  their  work.  Those 
wonderful  manufacturers  of  silk-stuffs  lack 
the  least  glimmer  of  that  sacred  lamp,  reason, 
which  enables  the  stupidest  of  darning-women 
to  mend  the  heel  of  an  old  stocking.  The 
office  of  inspector  of  Spiders'  webs  would 
have  Its  uses,  even  if  It  merely  succeeded  in 
ridding  us  of  a  mistaken  and  mischievous 
idea. 


271 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    GARDEN    SPIDERS:    THE    LIME-SNARE 

THE  spiral  network  of  the  Epeirae 
possesses  contrivances  of  fearsome  cun- 
ning. Let  us  give  our  attention  by  preference 
to  that  of  the  Banded  Epeira  or  that  of  the 
Silky  Epeira,  both  of  which  can  be  observed 
at  early  morning  in  all  their  freshness. 

The  thread  that  forms  them  is  seen  with 
the  naked  eye  to  dijffer  from  that  of  the 
framework  and  the  spokes.  It  glitters  in  the 
sun,  looks  as  though  it  were  knotted  and  gives 
the  impression  of  a  chaplet  of  atoms.  To 
examine  it  through  the  lens  on  the  web  itself 
is  scarcely  feasible,  because  of  the  shaking  of 
the  fabric,  which  trembles  at  the  least  breath. 
By  passing  a  sheet  of  glass  under  the  web  and 
lifting  it,  I  take  away  a  few  pieces  of  thread 
to  study,  pieces  that  remain  fixed  to  the  glass 
in  parallel  lines.  Lens  and  microscope  can 
now  play  their  part. 

272 


The  Garden   Spiders:  The  Lime-Snare 

The  sight  Is  perfectly  astounding.  Those 
threads,  on  the  borderland  between  the  visible 
and  the  invisible,  are  very  closely  twisted 
twine,  similar  to  the  gold  cord  of  our  officers' 
sword-knots.  Moreover,  they  are  hollow. 
The  Infinitely  slender  is  a  tube,  a  channel  full 
of  a  viscous  moisture  resembling  a  strong 
solution  of  gum  arable.  I  can  see  a  diapha- 
nous trail  of  this  moisture  trickling  through 
the  broken  ends.  Under  the  pressure  of  the 
thin  glass  slide  that  covers  them  on  the  stage 
of  the  microscope,  the  twists  lengthen  out, 
become  crinkled  ribbons,  traversed  from  end 
to  end,  through  the  middle,  by  a  dark  streak, 
which  is  the  empty  container. 

The  fluid  contents  must  ooze  slowly 
through  the  side  of  those  tubular  threads, 
rolled  into  twisted  strings,  and  thus  render 
the  network  sticky.  It  is  sticky,  in  fact,  and 
in  such  a  way  as  to  provoke  surprise.  I  bring 
a  fine  straw  flat  down  upon  three  or  four 
rungs  of  a  sector.  However  gentle  the  con- 
tact, adhesion  Is  at  once  established.  When  I 
lift  the  straw,  the  threads  come  with  It  and 
stretch  to  twice  or  three  times  their  length, 
like  a  thread  of  India-rubber.  At  last,  when 
over-taut,  they  loosen  without  breaking  and 

273 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

resume  their  original  form.  They  lengthen 
by  unrolling  their  twist,  they  shorten  by  roll- 
ing it  again;  lastly,  they  become  adhesive  by 
taking  the  glaze  of  the  gummy  moisture 
wherewith  they  are  filled. 

In  short,  the  spiral  thread  is  a  capillary 
tube  finer  than  any  that  our  physics  will  ever 
know.  It  is  rolled  into  a  twist  so  as  to  possess 
an  elasticity  that  allows  it,  without  breaking, 
to  yield  to  the  tugs  of  the  captured  prey;  it 
holds  a  supply  of  sticky  matter  in  reserve  in 
its  tube,  so  as  to  renew  the  adhesive  properties 
of  the  surface  by  incessant  exudation,  as  they 
become  impaired  by  exposure  to  the  air.  It 
is  simply  marvellous. 

The  Epeira  hunts  not  with  springs,  but 
with  lime-snares.  And  such  lime-snares ! 
Everything  Is  caught  in  them,  down  to  the 
dandelion-plume  that  barely  brushes  against 
them.  Nevertheless,  the  Epeira,  who  is  In 
constant  touch  with  her  web.  Is  not  caught  In 
them.    Why  ? 

Let  us  first  of  all  remember  that  the  Spider 
has  contrived  for  herself.  In  the  middle  of  her 
trap,  a  floor  In  whose  construction  the  sticky 
spiral  thread  plays  no  part.  We  saw  how  this 
thread  stops  suddenly  at  some  distance  from 
274 


The  Garden  Spiders:  The  Lime-Snare 

the  centre.  There  Is  here,  covering  a  space 
which,  In  the  larger  webs,  Is  about  equal  to 
the  palm  of  one's  hand,  a  fabric  formed  of 
spokes  and  of  the  commencement  of  the 
auxiliary  spiral,  a  neutral  fabric  In  which 
the  exploring  straw  finds  no  adhesiveness 
anywhere. 

Here,  on  this  central  resting-floor,  and  here 
only,  the  Epeira  takes  her  stand,  waiting  whole 
days  for  the  arrival  of  the  game.  However 
close,  however  prolonged  her  contact  with 
this  portion  of  the  web,  she  runs  no  risk  of 
sticking  to  it,  because  the  gummy  coating  Is 
lacking,  as  is  the  twisted  and  tubular  structure, 
throughout  the  length  of  the  spokes  and 
throughout  the  extent  of  the  auxiliary  spiral. 
These  pieces,  together  with  the  rest  of  the 
framework,  are  made  of  plain,  straight,  solid 
thread. 

But,  when  a  victim  is  caught,  sometimes 
right  at  the  edge  of  the  web,  the  Spider  has  to 
rush  up  quickly,  to  bind  it  and  overcome  Its 
attempts  to  free  itself.  She  Is  walking  then 
upon  her  network;  and  I  do  not  find  that  she 
sufFers  the  least  inconvenience.  The  lime- 
threads  are  not  even  lifted  by  the  movements 
of  her  legs. 

275 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

In  my  boyhood,  when  a  troop  of  us  would 
go,  on  Thursdays,-^  to  try  and  catch  a  Gold- 
finch in  the  hemp-fields,  we  used,  before  cover- 
ing the  twigs  with  glue,  to  grease  our  fingers 
with  a  few  drops  of  oil,  lest  we  should  get 
them  caught  in  the  sticky  matter.  Does  the 
Epeira  know  the  secret  of  fatty  substances? 
Let  us  try. 

I  rub  my  exploring  straw  with  slightly  oiled 
paper.  When  applied  to  the  spiral  thread  of 
the  web,  it  now  no  longer  sticks  to  it.  The 
principle  is  discovered.  I  pull  out  the  leg  of 
a  live  Epeira.  Brought  just  as  it  is  into  con- 
tact with  the  lime-threads,  it  does  not  stick  to 
them  any  more  than  to  the  neutral  cords, 
whether  spokes  or  parts  of  the  framework. 
We  were  entitled  to  expect  this,  judging  by  the 
Spider's  general  immunity. 

But  here  is  something  that  wholly  alters  the 
result.  I  put  the  leg  to  soak  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  in  disulphide  of  carbon,  the  best 
solvent  of  fatty  matters.  I  wash  it  carefully 
with  a  brush  dipped  in  the  same  fluid.  When 
this  washing  is  finished,  the  leg  sticks  to  the 
snaring-thread  quite  easily  and  adheres  to  it 

^  The  weekly  half -holiday  in  French  schools. — Trans-^ 
lator's  Note. 

276 


The  Garden  Spiders:  The  Lime-Snare 

just  as  well  as  anything  else  would,  the  unoiled 
straw,  for  instance. 

Did  I  guess  aright  when  I  judged  that  It 
was  a  fatty  substance  that  preserved  the 
Epeira  from  the  snares  of  her  sticky 
Catherine-wheel?  The  action  of  the  carbon 
disulphlde  seems  to  say  yes.  Besides,  there  Is 
no  reason  why  a  substance  of  this  kind,  which 
plays  so  frequent  a  part  in  animal  economy, 
should  not  coat  the  Spider  very  slightly  by  the 
mere  act  of  perspiration.  We  used  to  rub  our 
fingers  with  a  little  oil  before  handling  the 
twigs  in  which  the  Goldfinch  was  to  be  caught; 
even  so  the  Epeira  varnishes  herself  with  a 
special  sweat,  to  operate  on  any  part  of  her 
web  without  fear  of  the  lime-threads. 

However,  an  unduly  protracted  stay  on  the 
sticky  threads  would  have  Its  drawbacks.  In 
the  long  run,  continual  contact  with  those 
threads  might  produce  a  certain  adhesion  and 
inconvenience  the  Spider,  who  must  preserve 
all  her  agility  In  order  to  rush  upon  the  prey 
before  it  can  release  itself.  For  this  reason, 
gummy  threads  are  never  used  in  building  the 
post  of  Interminable  waiting. 

It  is  only  on  her  resting-floor  that  the 
Epeira  sits,  motionless  and  with  her  eight  legs 
277 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

outspread,  ready  to  mark  the  least  quiver  in 
the  net.  It  is  here,  again,  that  she  takes  her 
meals,  often  long-drawn-out,  when  the  joint 
is  a  substantial  one;  it  is  hither  that,  after 
trussing  and  nibbling  it,  she  drags  her  prey  at 
the  end  of  a  thread,  to  consume  it  at  her  ease 
on  a  non-viscous  mat.  As  a  hunting-post  and 
refectory,  the  Epeira  has  contrived  a  central 
space,  free  from  glue. 

As  for  the  glue  itself,  it  Is  hardly  possible 
to  study  its  chemical  properties,  because  the 
quantity  is  so  slight.  The  microscope  shows 
it  trickling  from  the  broken  threads  in  the 
form  of  a  transparent  and  more  or  less  gran- 
ular streak.  The  following  experiment  will 
tell  us  more  about  it. 

With  a  sheet  of  glass  passed  across  the  web, 
I  gather  a  series  of  lime-threads  which  remain 
fixed  in  parallel  lines.  I  cover  this  sheet  with 
a  bell-jar  standing  in  a  depth  of  water.  Soon, 
in  this  atmosphere  saturated  with  humidity, 
the  threads  become  enveloped  in  a  watery 
sheath,  which  gradually  Increases  and  begins 
to  flow.  The  twisted  shape  has  by  this  time 
disappeared;  and  the  channel  of  the  thread 
reveals  a  chaplet  of  translucent  orbs,  that  Is  to 
say,  a  series  of  extremely  fine  drops. 
2r8 


The  Garden   Spiders:  The  Lime-Snare 

In  twenty-four  hours,  the  threads  have  lost 
their  contents  and  are  reduced  to  almost  in- 
visible streaks.  If  I  then  lay  a  drop  of  water 
on  the  glass,  I  get  a  sticky  solution,  similar  to 
that  which  a  particle  of  gum  arabic  might 
yield.  The  conclusion  is  evident :  the  Epeira's 
glue  is  a  substance  that  absorbs  moisture 
freely.  In  an  atmosphere  with  a  high  degree 
of  humidity,  it  becomes  saturated  and  perco- 
lates by  sweating  through  the  side  of  the 
tubular  threads. 

These  data  explain  certain  facts  relating  to 
the  work  of  the  net.  The  full-grown  Banded 
and  Silky  Epeiree  weave  at  very  early  hours, 
long  before  dawn.  Should  the  air  turn  misty, 
they  sometimes  leave  that  part  of  the  task 
unfinished :  they  build  the  general  framework, 
they  lay  the  spokes,  they  even  draw  the  auxili- 
ary spiral,  for  all  these  parts  are  unaffected  by 
excess  of  moisture;  but  they  are  very  careful 
not  to  work  at  the  lime-threads,  which,  if 
soaked  by  the  fog,  would  dissolve  into  sticky 
shreds  and  lose  their  efficacy  by  being  wetted. 
The  net  that  was  started  will  be  finished  to- 
morrow, if  the  atmosphere  be  favourable. 

While  the  highly-absorbent  character  of  the 
snaring-thread  has  Its  drawbacks,  it  also  has 
279 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

compensating  advantages.  Both  Epeirae, 
when  hunting  by  day,  affect  those  hot  places, 
exposed  to  the  fierce  rays  of  the  sun,  wherein 
the  Crickets  delight.  In  the  torrid  heats  of 
the  dog-days,  therefore,  the  lime-threads,  but 
for  special  provisions,  would  be  liable  to 
dry  up,  to  shrivel  into  stiff  and  lifeless  fila- 
ments. But  the  very  opposite  happens.  At 
the  most  scorching  times  of  the  day,  they 
continue  supple,  elastic  and  more  and  more 
adhesive. 

How  is  this  brought  about?  By  their  very 
powers  of  absorption.  The  moisture  of  which 
the  air  is  never  deprived  penetrates  them 
slowly;  it  dilutes  the  thick  contents  of  their 
tubes  to  the  requisite  degree  and  causes  it  to 
ooze  through,  as  and  when  the  earlier  stick- 
iness decreases.  What  bird-catcher  could  vie 
with  the  Garden  Spider  in  the  art  of  laying 
lime-snares?  And  all  this  industry  and  cun- 
ning for  the  capture  of  a  Moth ! 

Then,  too,  what  a  passion  for  production ! 
Knowing  the  diameter  of  the  orb  and  the 
number  of  coils,  we  can  easily  calculate  the 
total  length  of  the  sticky  spiral.  We  find  that, 
in  one  sitting,  each  time  that  she  remakes  her 
web,  the  Angular  Epeira  produces  some 
280 


The  Garden  Spiders:  The  Lime-Snare 

twenty  yards  of  gummy  thread.  The  more 
skilful  Silky  Epeira  produces  thirty.  Well, 
during  two  months,  the  Angular  Epeira,  my 
neighbour,  renewed  her  snare  nearly  every 
evening.  During  that  period,  she  manufac- 
tured something  like  three-quarters  of  a  mile 
of  this  tubular  thread,  rolled  into  a  tight  twist 
and  bulging  with  glue. 

I  should  like  an  anatomist  endowed  with 
better  implements  than  mine  and  with  less 
tired  eyesight  to  explain  to  us  the  work  of  the 
marvellous  rope-yard.  How  is  the  silky  mat- 
ter moulded  into  a  capillary  tube?  How  is 
this  tube  filled  with  glue  and  tightly  twisted? 
And  how  does  this  same  wire-mill  also  turn 
out  plain  threads,  wrought  first  into  a  frame- 
work and  then  into  muslin  and  satin ;  next,  a 
russet  foam,  such  as  fills  the  wallet  of  the 
Banded  Epeira;  next,  the  black  stripes 
stretched  in  meridian  curves  on  that  same 
wallet?  What  a  number  of  products  to  come 
from  that  curious  factory,  a  Spider's  belly !  I 
behold  the  results,  but  fail  to  understand  the 
working  of  the  machine.  I  leave  the  problem 
to  the  masters  of  the  microtome  and  the 
scalpel. 


281 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  GARDEN  SPIDERS  :  THE  TELEGRAPH-WIRE 

F  the  six  Garden  Spiders  that  form  the 
object  of  my  observations,  two  only,  the 
Banded  and  the  Silky  Epeira,  remain  con- 
stantly in  their  v/ebs,  even  under  the  blinding 
rays  of  a  fierce  sun.  The  others,  as  a  rule, 
do  not  show  themselves  until  nightfall.  At 
some  distance  from  the  net,  they  have  a  rough 
and  ready  retreat  in  the  brambles,  an  ambush 
made  of  a  few  leaves  held  together  by 
stretched  threads.  It  is  here  that,  for  the  most 
part,  they  remain  in  the  daytime,  motionless 
and  sunk  in  meditation. 

But  the  shrill  light  that  vexes  them  is  the 
joy  of  the  fields.  At  such  times,  the  Locust 
hops  more  nimbly  than  ever,  more  gaily  skims 
the  Dragon-fly.  Besides,  the  limy  web,  despite 
the  rents  suffered  during  the  night,  is  still  in 
serviceable  condition.  If  some  giddy-pate 
allow  himself  to  be  caught,  will  the  Spider,  at 
the  distance  whereto  she  has  retired,  be  unable 
to  take  advantage  of  the  windfall?  Never 
282 


Garden  Spiders:  The  Telegraph-Wire 

fear.  She  arrives  in  a  flash.  How  is  she 
apprised  ?    Let  us  explain  the  matter. 

The  alarm  is  given  by  the  vibration  of  the 
web,  much  more  than  by  the  sight  of  the  cap- 
tured object.  A  very  simple  experiment  will 
prove  this.  I  lay  upon  a  Banded  Epeira's 
lime-threads  a  Locust  that  second  asphyxiated 
with  carbon  disulphide.  The  carcass  is  placed 
in  front,  or  behind,  or  at  either  side  of  the 
Spider,  who  sits  moveless  in  the  centre  of  the 
net.  If  the  test  is  to  be  applied  to  a  species 
with  a  daytime  hiding-place  amid  the  foliage, 
the  dead  Locust  is  laid  on  the  web,  more  or 
less  near  the  centre,  no  matter  how. 

In  both  cases,  nothing  happens  at  first.  The 
Epeira  remains  in  her  motionless  attitude, 
even  when  the  morsel  is  at  a  short  distance  in 
front  of  her.  She  is  indifferent  to  the 
presence  of  the  game,  does  not  seem  to  per- 
ceive it,  so  much  so  that  she  ends  by  wearing 
out  my  patience.  Then,  with  a  long  straw, 
which  enables  me  to  conceal  myself  slightly, 
I  set  the  dead  insect  trembling. 

That  is  quite  enough.    The  Banded  Epeira 

and  the  Silky  Epeira  hasten  to  the  central 

floor;  the  others  come  down  from  the  branch; 

all  go  to  the  Locust,  swathe  him  with  tape, 

283 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

treat  him,  In  short,  as  they  would  treat  a  live 
prey  captured  under  normal  conditions.  It 
took  the  shaking  of  the  web  to  decide  them 
to  attack. 

Perhaps  the  grey  colour  of  the  Locust  Is  not 
sufficiently  conspicuous  to  attract  attention 
by  Itself.  Then  let  us  try  red,  the  brightest 
colour  to  our  retina  and  probably  also  to  the 
Spiders'.  None  of  the  game  hunted  by  the 
Epeirae  being  clad  in  scarlet,  I  make  a  small 
bundle  out  of  red  wool,  a  bait  of  the  size  of  a 
Locust.    I  glue  it  to  the  web. 

My  stratagem  succeds.  As  long  as  the 
parcel  is  stationary,  the  Spider  is  not  roused; 
but,  the  moment  it  trembles,  stirred  by  my 
straw,  she  runs  up  eagerly. 

There  are  silly  ones  who  just  touch  the 
thing  with  their  legs  and,  without  further  en- 
quiries, swathe  It  In  silk  after  the  manner  of 
the  usual  game.  They  even  go  so  far  as  to  dig 
their  fangs  into  the  bait,  following  the  rule  of 
the  preliminary  poisoning.  Then  and  then 
only  the  mistake  is  recognized  and  the  tricked 
Spider  retires  and  does  not  come  back,  unless 
It  be  long  afterwards,  when  she  flings  the 
lumbersome  object  out  of  the  web. 

There  are  also  clever  ones.  Like  the 
284 


Garden  Spiders:  The  Telegraph- Wire 

others,  these  hasten  to  the  red-woollen  lure, 
which  my  straw  insidiously  keeps  moving;  they 
come  from  their  tent  among  the  leaves  as 
readily  as  from  the  centre  of  the  web;  they 
explore  it  with  their  palpi  and  their  legs ;  but, 
soon  perceiving  that  the  thing  is  valueless,  they 
are  careful  not  to  spend  their  silk  on  useless 
bonds.  My  quivering  bait  does  not  deceive 
them.     It  is  flung  out  after  a  brief  inspection. 

Still,  the  clever  ones,  like  the  silly  ones,  run 
even  from  a  distance,  from  their  leafy  am- 
bush. How  do  they  know  ?  Certainly  not  by 
sight.  Before  recognizing  their  mistake,  they 
have  to  hold  the  object  between  their  legs  and 
even  to  nibble  at  it  a  little.  They  are  ex- 
tremely shortsighted.  At  a  hand's-breadth's 
distance,  the  lifeless  prey,  unable  to  shake  the 
web,  remains  unperceived.  Besides,  in  many 
cases,  the  hunting  takes  place  in  the  dense 
darkness  of  the  night,  when  sight,  even  if  it 
were  good,  would  not  avail. 

If  the  eyes  are  insufficient  guides,  even  close 
at  hand,  how  will  it  be  when  the  prey  has  to 
be  spied  from  afar!  In  that  case,  an 
intelligence-apparatus  for  long-distance  work 
becomes  indispensable.  We  have  no  difficuhy 
in  detecting  the  apparatus. 
28s 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Let  us  look  attentively  behind  the  web  of 
any  Epeira  with  a  daytime  hiding-place:  we 
shall  see  a  thread  that  starts  from  the  centre 
of  the  network,  ascends  in  a  slanting  line  out- 
side the  plane  of  the  web  and  ends  at  the  am- 
bush where  the  Spider  lurks  all  day.  Except 
^at  the  central  point,  there  is  no  connection  be- 
tween this  thread  and  the  rest  of  the  work,  no 
interweaving  with  the  scaffolding-threads. 
Free  of  impediment,  the  line  runs  straight 
from  the  centre  of  the  net  to  the  ambush-tent. 
Its  length  averages  twenty-two  inches.  The 
Angular  Epeira,  settled  high  up  in  the  trees, 
has  shown  me  some  as  long  as  eight  or  nine 
feet. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  this  slanting  line  is 
a  foot-bridge  which  allows  the  Spider  to  re- 
pair hurriedly  to  the  web,  when  summoned 
by  urgent  business,  and  then,  when  her  round 
is  finished,  to  return  to  her  hut.  In  fact,  it  is 
the  road  which  I  see  her  follow,  in  going  and 
coming.  But  is  that  all?  No;  for,  if  the 
Epeira  had  no  aim  in  view  but  a  means  of 
rapid  transit  between  her  tent  and  the  net,  the 
foot-bridge  would  be  fastened  to  the  upper 
edge  of  the  web.  The  journey  would  be 
shorter  and  the  slope  less  steep. 
286 


Garden  Spiders:  The  Telegraph- Wire 

Why,  moreover,  does  this  line  always  start 
in  the  centre  of  the  sticky  network  and  never 
elsewhere?  Because  that  is  the  point  where 
the  spokes  meet  and,  therefore,  the  common 
centre  of  vibration.  Anything  that  moves 
upon  the  web  sets  it  shaking.  All  then  that 
is  needed  is  a  thread  issuing  from  this  central 
point  to  convey  to  a  distance  the  news  of  a 
prey  struggling  in  some  part  or  other  of  the 
net.  The  slanting  cord,  extending  outside  the 
plane  of  the  web,  is  more  than  a  foot-bridge: 
it  is,  above  all,  a  signalling-apparatus,  a 
telegraph-wire. 

Let  us  try  experiment.  I  place  a  Locust 
on  the  networko  Caught  in  the  sticky  toils,  he 
plunges  about.  Forthwith,  the  Spider  issues 
impetuously  from  her  hut,  comes  down  the 
foot-bridge,  makes  a  rush  for  the  Locust, 
wraps  him  up  and  operates  on  him  according 
to  rule.  Soon  after,  she  hoists  him,  fastened 
by  a  line  to  her  spinneret,  and  drags  him  to 
her  hiding-place,  where  a  long  banquet  will  be 
held.  So  far,  nothing  new :  things  happen  as 
usual. 

I  leave  the  Spider  to  mind  her  own  affairs 
for  some  days,  before  I  Interfere  with  her.  I 
again  propose  to  give  her  a  Locust;  but,  this 
287 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

time,  I  first  cut  the  signalling-thread  with  a 
touch  of  the  scissors,  without  shaking  any  part 
of  the  edifice.  The  game  is  then  laid  on  the 
web.  Complete  success:  the  entangled  insect 
struggles,  sets  the  net  quivering;  the  Spider, 
on  her  side,  does  not  stir,  as  though  heedless  of 
events. 

The  idea  might  occur  to  one  that,  in  this 
business,  the  Epeira  stays  motionless  in  her 
cabin  since  she  is  prevented  from  hurrying 
down,  because  the  foot-bridge  is  broken.  Let 
us  undeceive  ourselves :  for  one  road  open  to 
her  there  are  a  hundred,  all  ready  to  bring  her 
to  the  place  where  her  presence  is  now  re- 
quired. The  network  is  fastened  to  the 
branches  by  a  host  of  lines,  all  of  them  very 
easy  to  cross.  Well,  the  Epeira  embarks  upon 
none  of  them,  but  remains  moveless  and 
self-absorbed. 

Why?  Because  her  telegraph,  being  out  of 
order,  no  longer  tells  her  of  the  shaking  of  the 
web.  The  captured  prey  is  too  far  off  for  her 
to  see  it;  she  is  all  unwitting.  A  good  hour 
passes,  with  the  Locust  still  kicking,  the  Spider 
impassive,  myself  watching.  Nevertheless,  In 
the  end,  the  Epeira  wakes  up :  no  longer  feel- 
ing the  signalling-thread,  broken  by  my 
288 


Garden  Spiders:  The  Telegraph- Wire 

scissors,  as  taut  as  usual  under  her  legs,  she 
comes  to  enquire  into  the  state  of  things.  The 
web  is  reached,  without  the  least  difficulty,  by- 
one  of  the  lines  of  the  framework,  the  first 
that  offers.  The  Locust  is  then  perceived  and 
forthwith  enswathed,  after  which  the  signal- 
ling-thread is  remade,  taking  the  place  of  the 
one  which  I  have  broken.  Along  this  road  the 
Spider  goes  home,  dragging  her  prey  behind 
her. 

My  neighbour,  the  mighty  Angular  Epeira, 
with  her  telegraph-wire  nine  feet  long,  has 
even  better  things  in  store  for  me.  One  morn- 
ing, I  find  her  web,  which  is  now  deserted, 
almost  intact,  a  proof  that  the  night's  hunting 
has  not  been  good.  The  animal  must  be 
hungry.  With  a  piece  of  game  for  a  bait,  I 
hope  to  bring  her  down  from  her  lofty 
retreat. 

I  entangle  in  the  web  a  rare  morsel,  a 
Dragon-fly,  who  struggles  desperately  and  sets 
the  whole  net  a-shaking.  The  other,  up 
above,  leaves  her  lurking-place  amid  the 
cypress-foliage,  strides  swiftly  down  along 
her  telegraph-wire,  comes  to  the  Dragon-fly, 
trusses  her  and  at  once  climbs  home  again  by 
the  same  road,  with  her  prize  dangling  at  her 
289 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

heels  by  a  thread.  The  final  sacrifice  will  take 
place  in  the  quiet  of  the  leafy  sanctuary. 

A  few  days  later,  I  renew  my  experiment 
under  the  same  conditions,  but,  this  time,  I 
first  cut  the  signalling-thread.  In  vain  I  select 
a  large  Dragon-fly,  a  very  restless  prisoner; 
in  vain  I  exert  my  patience:  the  Spider  does 
not  come  down  all  day.  Her  telegraph  being 
broken,  she  receives  no  notice  of  what  is  hap- 
pening nine  feet  below.  The  entangled  morsel 
remains  where  it  lies,  not  despised,  but  un- 
known. At  nightfall,  the  Epeira  leaves  her 
cabin,  passes  over  the  ruins  of  her  web,  finds 
the  Dragon-fly  and  eats  her  on  the  spot,  after 
which  the  net  is  renewed. 

One  of  the  Epeirae  whom  I  have  had  the 
opportunity  of  examining  simplifies  the 
system,  while  retaining  the  essential  mechan- 
ism of  a  transmission-thread.  This  is  the 
Crater  Epeira  {Epeira  crater  a,  Walck.),  a 
species  seen  in  spring,  at  which  time  she 
indulges  especially  in  the  chase  of  the 
Domestic  Bee,  upon  the  flowering  rosemaries. 
At  the  leafy  end  of  a  branch,  she  builds  a  sort 
of  silken  shell,  the  shape  and  size  of  an  acorn- 
cup.  This  is  where  she  sits,  with  her  paunch 
contained  in  the  round  cavity  and  her  fore- 

200 


Garden  Spiders:  The  Telegraph- Wire 

legs  resting  on  the  ledge,  ready  to  leap.  The 
lazy  creature  loves  this  position  and  rarely 
stations  herself  head  downwards  on  the  web, 
as  do  the  others.  Cosily  ensconced  in  the 
hollow  of  her  cup,  she  awaits  the  approaching 
game. 

Her  web,  which  is  vertical,  as  is  the  rule 
among  the  Epeirse,  is  of  a  fair  size  and  always 
very  near  the  bowl  wherein  the  Spider  takes 
her  ease.  Moreover,  it  touches  the  bowl  by 
means  of  an  angular  extension;  and  the  angle 
always  contains  one  spoke  which  the  Epeira, 
seated,  so  to  speak,  in  her  crater,  has  con- 
stantly under  her  legs.  This  spoke,  springing 
from  the  common  focus  of  the  vibrations  from 
all  parts  of  the  network,  is  eminently  fitted  to 
keep  the  Spider  informed  of  whatsoever  hap- 
pens. It  has  a  double  office :  it  forms  part  of 
the  Catherine-wheel  supporting  the  lime- 
threads  and  it  warns  the  Epeira  by  its  vibra- 
tions.   A  special  thread  is  here  superfluous. 

The  other  snarers,  on  the  contrary,  who 
occupy  a  distant  retreat  by  day,  cannot  do 
without  a  private  wire  that  keeps  them  in  per- 
manent communication  with  the  deserted  web. 
All  of  them  have  one,  in  point  of  fact,  but 
only  when  age  comes,  age  prone  to  rest  and  to 
291 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

long  slumbers.  In  their  youth,  the  Epeirae, 
who  are  then  very  wide-awake,  know  nothing 
of  the  art  of  telegraphy.  Besides,  their  web, 
a  short-lived  work  whereof  hardly  a  trace  re- 
mains on  the  morrow,  does  not  allow  of  this 
kind  of  industry.  It  is  no  use  going  to  the 
expense  of  a  signalling-apparatus  for  a  ruined 
snare  wherein  nothing  can  now  be  caught. 
Only  the  old  Spiders,  meditating  or  dozing  in 
their  green  tent,  are  warned  from  afar,  by 
telegraph,  of  what  takes  place  on  the  web. 

To  save  herself  from  keeping  a  close  watch 
that  would  degenerate  into  drudgery  and  to 
remain  alive  to  events  even  when  resting,  with 
her  back  turned  on  the  net,  the  ambushed 
Spider  always  has  her  foot  upon  the  telegraph- 
wire.  Of  my  observations  on  this  subject,  let 
me  relate  the  following,  which  will  be  suf- 
ficient for  our  purpose. 

An  Angular  Epeira,  with  a  remarkably  fine 
beUy,  has  spun  her  web  between  two 
laurestine-shrubs,  covering  a  width  of  nearly 
a  yard.  The  sun  beats  upon  the  snare,  which 
is  abandoned  long  before  dawn.  The  Spider 
is  in  her  day  manor,  a  resort  easily  discovered 
by  following  the  telegraph-wire.  It  is  a 
vaulted  chamber  of  dead  leaves,  joined  to- 
292 


Garden  Spiders:  The  Telegraph- Wire 

gether  with  a  few  bits  of  silk.  The  refuge  is 
deep :  the  Spider  disappears  in  it  entirely,  all 
but  her  rounded  hind-quarters,  which  bar  the 
entrance  to  the  donjon. 

With  her  front  half  plunged  into  the  back 
of  her  hut,  the  Epeira  certainly  cannot  see  her 
web.  Even  if  she  had  good  sight,  instead  of 
being  purblind,  her  position  could  not  possibly 
allow  her  to  keep  the  prey  in  view.  Does  she 
give  up  hunting  during  this  period  of  bright 
sunlight?    Not  at  all.    Look  again. 

Wonderful!  One  of  her  hind-legs  is 
stretched  outside  the  leafy  cabin;  and  the 
signalling-thread  ends  just  at  the  tip  of  that 
leg.  Whoso  has  not  seen  the  Epeira  in  this 
attitude,  with  her  hand,  so  to  speak,  on  the 
telegraph-receiver,  knows  nothing  of  one  of 
the  most  curious  instances  of  animal  clever- 
ness. Let  any  game  appear  upon  the  scene; 
and  the  slumberer,  forthwith  aroused  by  means 
of  the  leg  receiving  the  vibrations,  hastens  up. 
A  Locust  whom  I  myself  lay  on  the  web  pro- 
cures her  this  agreeable  shock  and  what  fol- 
lows. If  she  is  satisfied  with  her  bag,  I  am 
still  more  satisfied  with  what  I  have  learnt. 

The  occasion  is  too  good  not  to  find  out, 
under  better  conditions  as  regards  approach, 
293 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

what  the  inhabitant  of  the  cypress-trees  has 
already  shown  me.  The  next  morning,  I  cut 
the  telegraph-wire,  this  time  as  long  as  one's 
arm,  and  held,  like  yesterday,  by  one  of  the 
hind-legs  stretched  outside  the  cabin.  I  then 
place  on  the  web  a  double  prey,  a  Dragon-fly 
and  a  Locust.  The  latter  kicks  out  with  his 
long,  spurred  shanks;  the  other  flutters  her 
wings.  The  web  is  tossed  about  to  such  an 
extent  that  a  number  of  leaves,  just  beside  the 
Epeira's  nest,  move,  shaken  by  the  threads 
of  the  framework  affixed  to  them. 

And  this  vibration,  though  so  close  at 
hand,  does  not  rouse  the  Spider  in  the  least, 
does  not  make  her  even  turn  round  to  enquire 
what  is  going  on.  The  moment  that  her 
signalling-thread  ceases  to  work,  she  knows 
nothing  of  passing  events.  All  day  long,  she 
remains  without  stirring.  In  the  evening,  at 
eight  o'clock,  she  sallies  forth  to  weave  the 
new  web  and  at  last  finds  the  rich  windfall 
whereof  she  was  hitherto  unaware. 

One  word  more.  The  web  is  often  shaken 
by  the  wind.  The  different  parts  of  the 
framework,  tossed  and  teased  by  the  eddying 
air-currents,  cannot  fail  to  transmit  their  vi- 
bration to  the  signalling-thread.  Nevertheless, 

2Q4 


Garden  Spiders:  The  Telegraph- Wire 

the  Spider  does  not  quit  her  hut  and  remains 
indifferent  to  the  commotion  prevailing  in  the 
net.  Her  line,  therefore,  is  something  better 
than  a  bell-rope  that  pulls  and  communicates 
the  impulse  given :  it  is  a  telephone  capable, 
like  our  own,  of  transmitting  infinitesimal 
waves  of  sound.  Clutching  her  telephone-wire 
with  a  toe,  the  Spider  listens  with  her  leg;  she 
perceives  the  innermost  vibrations;  she  dis- 
tinguishes between  the  vibration  proceeding 
from  a  prisoner  and  the  mere  shaking  causftd 
by  the  wind. 


a9S 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    GARDEN    SPIDERS:    PAIRING   AND 
HUNTING 

XTOTWITHSTANDING  the  Importance 
-*-  ^  of  the  subject,  I  shall  not  enlarge  upon 
the  nuptials  of  the  Epeirae,  grim  natures  whose 
loves  easily  turn  to  tragedy  in  the  mystery  of 
the  night.  I  have  but  once  been  present  at  the 
pairing  and  for  this  curious  experience  I  must 
thank  my  lucky  star  and  my  fat  neighbour,  the 
Angular  Epeira,  whom  I  visit  so  often  by 
lantern-light.     Here  you  have  it. 

It  is  the  first  week  of  August,  at  about  nine 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  under  a  perfect  sky,  in 
calm,  hot  weather.  The  Spider  has  not  yet 
constructed  her  web  and  is  sitting  motionless 
on  her  suspension-cable.  The  fact  that  she 
should  be  slacking  like  this,  at  a  time  when  her 
building-operations  ought  to  be  In  full  swing, 
naturally  astonishes  me.  Can  something  un- 
usual be  afoot? 

Even  so.  I  see  hastening  up  from  the 
neighbouring  bushes   and  embarking  on  the 

2Q6 


Garden  Spiders:  Pairing  and  Hunting 

cable  a  male,  a  dwarf,  who  is  coming,  the 
whipper-snapper,  to  pay  his  respects  to  the 
portly  giantess.  How  has  he,  in  his  distant 
corner,  heard  of  the  presence  of  the  nymph 
ripe  for  marriage?  Among  the  Spiders,  these 
things  are  learnt  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
without  a  summons,  without  a  signal,  none 
knows  how. 

Once,  the  Great  Peacock,^  apprised  by  the 
magic  effluvia,  used  to  come  from  miles 
around  to  visit  the  recluse  in  her  bell-jar  in  my 
study.  The  dwarf  of  this  evening,  that  other 
nocturnal  pilgrim,  crosses  the  intricate  tangle 
of  the  branches  without  a  mistake  and  makes 
straight  for  the  rope-walker.  He  has  as  his 
guide  the  infallible  compass  that  brings  every 
Jack  and  his  Jill  together. 

He  climbs  the  slope  of  the  suspension- 
cord;  he  advances  circumspectly,  step  by  step. 
He  stops  some  distance  away,  irresolute. 
Shall  he  go  closer  ?  Is  this  the  right  moment  ? 
No.  The  other  lifts  a  limb  and  the  scared 
visitor  hurries  down  again.  Recovering  from 
his  fright,  he  climbs  up  once  more,  draws  a 

^  Cf.  Social  Life  in  the  Insect  World,  by  J.  H.  Fabre, 
translated  by  Bernard  Miall:  chap.  xiv. — Translator's 
Note. 

297 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

little  nearer.  More  sudden  flights,  followed 
by  fresh  approaches,  each  time  nigher  than 
before.  This  restless  running  to  and  fro  is 
the  declaration  of  the  enamoured  swain. 

Perseverance  spells  success.  The  pair  are 
now  face  to  face,  she  motionless  and  grave,  he 
all  excitement.  With  the  tip  of  his  leg,  he 
ventures  to  touch  the  plump  wench.  He  has 
gone  too  far,  daring  youth  that  he  is !  Panic- 
stricken,  he  takes  a  header,  hanging  by  his 
safety-line.  It  is  only  for  a  moment,  however. 
Up  he  comes  again.  He  has  learnt,  from  cer- 
tain symptoms,  that  we  are  at  last  yielding  to 
his  blandishments. 

With  his  legs  and  especially  with  his  palpi, 
or  feelers,  he  teases  the  buxom  gossip,  who 
answers  with  curious  skips  and  bounds.  Grip- 
ping a  thread  with  her  front  tarsi,  or  fingers, 
she  turns,  one  after  the  other,  a  number  of 
back  somersaults,  like  those  of  an  acrobat  on 
the  trapeze.  Having  done  this,  she  presents 
the  under-part  of  her  paunch  to  the  dwarf  and 
allows  him  to  fumble  at  it  a  little  with  his 
feelers.    Nothing  more :  it  is  done. 

The  object  of  the  expedition  is  attained. 
The  whipper-snapper  makes  off  at  full  speed, 
as  though  he  had  the  Furies  at  his  heels.  If 
298 


Garden  Spiders:  Pairing  and  Hunting 

he  remained,  he  would  presumably  be  eaten. 
These  exercises  on  the  tight-rope  are  not  re- 
peated. I  kept  watch  in  vain  on  the  following 
evenings :   I  never  saw  the  fellow  again. 

When  he  is  gone,  the  bride  descends  from 
the  cable,  spins  her  web  and  assumes  the 
hunting-attitude.  We  must  eat  to  have  silk, 
we  must  have  silk  to  eat  and  especially  to 
weave  the  expensive  cocoon  of  the  family. 
There  is  therefore  no  rest,  not  even  after  the 
excitement  of  being  married. 

The  Epirae  are  monuments  of  patience  in 
their  lime-snare.  With  her  head  down  and 
her  eight  legs  wide-spread,  the  Spider  occupies 
the  centre  of  the  web,  the  receiving-point  of 
the  information  sent  along  the  spokes.  If 
anywhere,  behind  or  before,  a  vibration  occur, 
the  sign  of  a  capture,  the  Epeira  knows  about 
it,  even  without  the  aid  of  sight.  She  hastens 
up  at  once. 

Until  then,  not  a  movement:  one  would 
think  that  the  animal  was  hypnotized  by  her 
watching.  At  most,  on  the  appearance  of  any» 
thing  suspicious,  she  begins  shaking  her  nest. 
This  is  her  way  of  inspiring  the  intruder  with 
awe.  If  I  myself  wish  to  provoke  the  singular 
alarm,  I  have  but  to  tease  the  Epeira  with  a 

299 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

bit  of  straw.  You  cannot  have  a  swing  with- 
out an  impulse  of  some  sort.  The  terror- 
stricken  Spider,  who  wishes  to  strike  terror  in- 
to others,  has  hit  upon  something  much  better. 
With  nothing  to  push  her,  she  swings  with  her 
floor  of  ropes.  There  is  no  effort,  no  visible 
exertion.  Not  a  single  part  of  the  animal 
moves ;  and  yet  everything  trembles.  Violent 
shaking  proceeds  from  apparent  inertia.  Rest 
causes  commotion. 

When  calm  is  restored,  she  resumes  her 
attitude,  ceaselessly  pondering  the  harsh  prob- 
lem of  life: 

'Shall  I  dine  to-day,  or  not?' 

Certain  privileged  beings,  exempt  from 
those  anxieties,  have  food  in  abundance  and 
need  not  struggle  to  obtain  it.  Such  is  the 
Gentle,  who  swims  blissfully  in  the  broth  of 
the  putrefying  adder.  Others — and,  by  a 
strange  irony  of  fate,  these  are  generally  the 
most  gifted — only  manage  to  eat  by  dint  of 
craft  and  patience. 

You  are  of  their  company,  O  my  industrious 
Epeirse !  So  that  you  may  dine,  you  spend 
your  treasures  of  patience  nightly;  and  often 
without  result.  I  sympathize  with  your  woes, 
for  I,  who  am  as  concerned  as  you  about  my 
300 


Garden  Spiders:  Pairing  and  Hunting 

daily  bread,  I  also  doggedly  spread  my  net, 
the  net  for  catching  ideas,  a  more  elusive  and 
less  substantial  prize  than  the  Moth.  Let  us 
not  lose  heart.  The  best  part  of  life  is  not 
in  the  present,  still  less  in  the  past;  it  lies  in 
the  future,  the  domain  of  hope.    Let  us  wait. 

All  day  long,  the  sky,  of  a  uniform  grey, 
has  appeared  to  be  brewing  a  storm.  In  spite 
of  the  threatened  downpour,  my  neighbour, 
who  is  a  shrewd  weather-prophet,  has  come 
out  of  the  cypress-tree  and  begun  to  renew  her 
web  at  the  regular  hour.  Her  forecast  is 
correct:  it  will  be  a  fine  night.  See,  the 
steaming-pan  of  the  clouds  splits  open;  and, 
through  the  apertures,  the  moon  peeps,  in- 
quisitively. I  too,  lantern  in  hand,  am  peep- 
ing. A  gust  of  wind  from  the  north  clears 
the  realms  on  high;  the  sky  becomes 
magnificent;  perfect  calm  reigns  below.  The 
Moths  begin  their  nighdy  rounds.  Good! 
One  is  caught,  a  mighty  fine  one.  The  Spider 
will  dine  to-day. 

What  happens  next,  in  an  uncertain  light, 
does  not  lend  itself  to  accurate  observation. 
It  is  better  to  turn  to  those  Garden  Spiders 
who  never  leave  their  web  and  who  hunt 
mainly  in  the  daytime.    The  Banded  and  the 

301 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Silky  Epeira,  both  of  whom  Hve  on  the  rose- 
maries in  the  enclosure,  shall  show  us  in  broad 
daylight  the  innermost  details  of  the  tragedy. 

I  myself  place  on  the  lime-snare  a  victim  of 
my  selecting.  Its  six  legs  are  caught  without 
more  ado.  If  the  insect  raises  one  of  its  tarsi 
and  pulls  towards  itself,  the  treacherous 
thread  follows,  unwinds  slightly  and,  without 
letting  go  or  breaking,  yields  to  the  captive's 
desperate  jerks.  Any  limb  released  only 
tangles  the  others  still  more  and  is  speedily 
recaptured  by  the  sticky  matter.  There  is  no 
means  of  escape,  except  by  smashing  the  trap 
with  a  sudden  effort  whereof  even  powerful 
insects  are  not  always  capable. 

Warned  by  the  shaking  of  the  net,  the 
Epeira  hastens  up ;  she  turns  round  about  the 
quarry;  she  inspects  it  at  a  distance,  so  as  to 
ascertain  the  extent  of  the  danger  before 
attacking.  The  strength  of  the  snareling  will 
decide  the  plan  of  campaign.  Let  us  first 
suppose  the  usual  case,  that  of  an  average  head 
of  game,  a  Moth  or  Fly  of  some  sort. 
Facing  her  prisoner,  the  Spider  contracts  her 
abdomen  slightly  and  touches  the  insect  for  a 
moment  with  the  end  of  her  spinnerets;  then, 
with  her  front  tarsi,  she  sets  her  victim 
302 


Garden  Spiders:  Pairing  and  Hunting 

spinning.  The  Squirrel,  in  the  moving 
cyhnder  of  his  cage,  does  not  display  a  more 
graceful  or  nimbler  dexterity.  A  cross-bar  of 
the  sticky  spiral  serves  as  an  axis  for  the  tiny 
machine,  which  turns,  turns  swiftly,  like  a  spit. 
It  is  a  treat  to  the  eyes  to  see  it  revolve. 

What  is  the  object  of  this  circular  motion? 
See,  the  brief  contact  of  the  spinnerets  has 
given  a  starting-point  for  a  thread,  which  the 
Spider  must  now  draw  from  her  silk- 
warehouse  and  gradually  roll  around  the 
captive,  so  as  to  swathe  him  in  a  winding- 
sheet  which  will  overpower  any  effort  made. 
It  is  the  exact  process  employed  in  our  wire- 
mills:  a  motor-driven  spool  revolves  and,  by 
its  action,  draws  the  wire  through  the  narrow 
eyelet  of  a  steel  plate,  making  it  of  the  fineness 
required,  and,  with  the  same  movement,  winds 
it  round  and  round  its  collar. 

Even  so  with  the  Epeira's  work.  The 
Spider's  front  tarsi  are  the  motor;  the  revolv- 
ing spool  is  the  captured  insect;  the  steel 
eyelet  is  the  aperture  of  the  spinnerets.  To 
bind  the  subject  with  precision  and  dispatch 
nothing  could  be  better  than  this  inexpensive 
and  highly-effective  method. 

Less  frequently,  a  second  process  is  em- 
303 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

ployed.  With  a  quick  movement,  the  Spider 
herself  turns  round  about  the  motionless  in- 
sect, crossing  the  web  first  at  the  top  and  then 
at  the  bottom  and  gradually  placing  the  fasten- 
ings of  her  line.  The  great  elasticity  of  the 
lime-threads  allows  the  Epeira  to  fling  herself 
time  after  time  right  into  the  web  and  to  pass 
through  it  without  damaging  the  net. 

Let  us  now  suppose  the  case  of  some  danger- 
ous game:  a  Praying  Mantis,  for  instance, 
brandishing  her  lethal  limbs,  each  hooked  and 
fitted  with  a  double  saw;  an  angry  Hornet, 
darting  her  awful  sting;  a  sturdy  Beetle, 
Invincible  under  his  horny  armour.  These 
are  exceptional  morsels,  hardly  ever  known  to 
the  Epeiras.  Will  they  be  accepted,  if  supplied 
by  my  stratagems  ? 

They  are,  but  not  without  caution.  The 
game  is  seen  to  be  perilous  of  approach  and 
the  Spider  turns  her  back  upon  it,  instead  of 
facing  it;  she  trains  her  rope-cannon  upon  it. 
Quickly,  the  hind-legs  draw  from  the  spin- 
nerets something  much  better  than  single 
cords.  The  whole  silk-battery  works  at  one 
and  the  same  time,  firing  a  regular  volley  of 
ribbons  and  sheets,  which  a  wide  movement  of 
the  legs  spreads  fan-wise  and  flings  over  the 
304 


Garden  Spiders;  Pairing  and  Hunting 

entangled  prisoner.  Guarding  against  sudden 
starts,  the  Epeira  casts  her  armfuls  of  bands 
on  the  front-  and  hind-parts,  over  the  legs  and 
over  the  wings,  here,  there  and  everywhere, 
extravagantly.  The  most  fiery  prey  is 
promptly  mastered  under  this  avalanche.  In 
vain,  the  Mantis  tries  to  open  her  saw-toothed 
arm-guards;  in  vain,  the  Hornet  makes  play 
with  her  dagger;  in  vain,  the  Beetle  stiffens 
his  legs  and  arches  his  back:  a  fresh  wave  of 
threads  swoops  down  and  paralyzes  every 
effort. 

These  lavished,  far-flung  ribbons  threaten 
to  exhaust  the  factory;  it  would  be  much  more 
economical  to  resort  to  the  method  of  the 
spool;  but,  to  turn  the  machine,  the  Spider 
would  have  to  go  up  to  it  and  work  it  with  her 
leg.  This  is  too  risky;  and  hence  the  contin- 
ous  spray  of  silk,  at  a  safe  distance.  When 
all  is  used  up,  there  is  more  to  come. 

Still,  the  Epeira  seems  concerned  at  this 
excessive  outlay.  When  circumstances  permit, 
she  gladly  returns  to  the  mechanism  of  the 
revolving  spool.  I  saw  her  practise  this 
abrupt  change  of  tactics  on  a  big  Beetle,  with 
a  smooth,  plump  body,  which  lent  itself 
admirably  to  the  rotary  process.  After  de- 
305 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

priving  the  beast  of  all  power  of  movement, 
she  went  up  to  it  and  turned  her  corpulent 
victim  as  she  would  have  done  with  a  medium- 
sized  Moth. 

But  with  the  Praying  Mantis,  sticking  out 
her  long  legs  and  her  spreading  wings,  rotation 
is  no  longer  feasible.  Then,  until  the  quarry 
is  thoroughly  subdued,  the  spray  of  bandages 
goes  on  continuously,  even  to  the  point  of  dry- 
ing up  the  silk-glands.  A  capture  of  this  kind 
is  ruinous.  It  is  true  that,  except  when  I  in- 
terfered, I  have  never  seen  the  Spider  tackle 
that  formidable  provender. 

Be  it  feeble  or  strong,  the  game  is  now 
neatly  trussed,  by  one  of  the  two  methods. 
The  next  move  never  varies.  The  bound  in- 
sect is  bitten,  without  persistency  and  without 
any  wound  that  shows.  The  Spider  next 
retires  and  allows  the  bite  to  act,  which  it  soon 
does.     She  then  returns. 

If  the  victim  be  small,  a  Clothes-moth,  for 
Instance,  it  is  consumed  on  the  spot,  at  the 
place  where  it  was  captured.  But,  for  a  prize 
of  some  importance,  on  which  she  hopes  to 
feast  for  many  an  hour,  sometimes  for  many  a 
day,  the  Spider  needs  a  sequestered  dining- 
room,  where  there  is  naught  to  fear  from  the 
306 


Garden  Spiders:  Pairing  and  Hunting 

stickiness  of  the  network.  Before  going  to 
it,  she  first  makes  her  prey  turn  in  the  converse 
direction  to  that  of  the  original  rotation.  Her 
object  is  to  free  the  nearest  spokes,  which 
supphed  pivots  for  the  machinery.  They  are 
essential  factors  which  it  behoves  her  to 
keep  intact,  if  need  be  by  sacrificing  a  few 
cross-bars. 

It  is  done;  the  twisted  ends  are  put  back 
Into  position.  The  well-trussed  game  Is  at 
last  removed  from  the  web  and  fastened  on 
behind  with  a  thread.  The  Spider  then 
marches  In  front  and  the  load  is  trundled 
across  the  web  and  hoisted  to  the  restlng-floor, 
which  Is  both  an  Inspection-post  and  a  dining- 
hall.  When  the  Spider  Is  of  a  species  that 
shuns  the  light  and  possesses  a  telegraph-line, 
she  mounts  to  her  daytime  hiding-place  along 
this  line,  with  the  game  bumping  against  her 
heels. 

While  she  Is  refreshing  herself,  let  us 
enquire  into  the  effects  of  the  little  bite  pre- 
viously administered  to  the  silk-swathed 
captive.  Does  the  Spider  kill  the  patient  with 
a  view  to  avoiding  unseasonable  jerks,  pro- 
tests so  disagreeable  at  dinner-time?  Several 
reasons  make  me  doubt  It.  In  the  first  place, 
307 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  attack  Is  so  much  veiled  as  to  have  all  the 
appearance  of  a  mere  kiss.  Besides,  it  is  made 
anywhere,  at  the  first  spot  that  offers.  The 
expert  slayers^  employ  methods  of  the  highest 
precision :  they  give  a  stab  in  the  neck,  or  un- 
der the  throat ;  they  wound  the  cervical  nerve- 
centres,  the  seat  of  energy.  The  paralyzers, 
those  accomplished  anatomists,  poison  the 
motor  nerve-centres,  of  which  they  know  the 
number  and  position.  The  Epeira  possesses 
none  of  this  fearsome  knowledge.  She  in- 
serts her  fangs  at  random,  as  the  Bee  does  her 
sting.  She  does  not  select  one  spot  rather 
than  another;  she  bites  indifferently  at  what- 
ever comes  within  reach.  This  being  so, 
her  poison  would  have  to  possess  unparalleled 
virulence  to  produce  a  corpse-like  inertia 
no  matter  which  the  point  attacked.  I 
can  scarcely  believe  in  instantaneous  death 
resulting  from  the  bite,  especially  in  the 
case  of  insects,  with  their  highly-resistant 
organisms. 

Besides,  is  it  really  a  corpse  that  the  Epeira 
wants,  she  who  feeds  on  blood  much  more 

*Cf.  Insect  Life,  by  J.  H.  Fabre,  translated  by  the 
author  of  Mademoiselle  Mori:  chap.  v. — Translator's 
Nate. 

308 


Garden  Spiders:  Pairing  and  Hunting 

than  on  flesh?  It  were  to  her  advantage  to 
suck  a  live  body,  wherein  the  flow  of  the 
hquids,  set  in  movement  by  the  pulsation  of 
the  dorsal  vessel,  that  rudimentary  heart  of 
insects,  must  act  more  freely  than  in  a  life- 
less body,  with  its  stagnant  fluids.  The 
game  which  the  Spider  means  to  suck  dry 
might  very  well  not  be  dead.  This  is  easily 
ascertained. 

I  place  some  Locusts  of  different  species  on 
the  webs  in  my  menagerie,  one  on  this,  another 
on  that.  The  Spider  comes  rushing  up,  binds 
the  prey,  nibbles  at  it  gently  and  withdraws, 
waiting  for  the  bite  to  take  effect.  I  then  take 
the  insect  and  carefully  strip  it  of  its  silken 
shroud.  The  Locust  is  not  dead,  far  from  It; 
one  would  even  think  that  he  had  suffered  no 
harm.  I  examine  the  released  prisoner 
through  the  lens  in  vain ;  I  can  see  no  trace  of 
a  wound. 

Can  he  be  unscathed,  in  spite  of  the  sort  of 
kiss  which  I  saw  given  to  him  just  now?  You 
would  be  ready  to  say  so,  judging  by  the 
furious  way  in  which  he  kicks  in  my  fingers. 
Nevertheless,  when  put  on  the  ground,  he 
walks  awkwardly,  he  seems  reluctant  to  hop. 
Perhaps  it  is  a  temporary  trouble,  caused  by 

3QC! 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

his  terrible  excitement  in  the  web.  It  looks  as 
though  it  would  soon  pass. 

I  lodge  my  Locusts  in  cages,  with  a  lettuce- 
leaf  to  console  them  for  their  trials;  but  they 
will  not  be  comforted.  A  day  elapses,  fol- 
lowed by  a  second.  Not  one  of  them  touches 
the  leaf  of  salad;  their  appetite  has  disap- 
peared. Their  movements  become  more 
uncertain,  as  though  hampered  by  irresistible 
torpor.  On  the  second  day,  they  are  dead, 
every  one  irrecoverably  dead. 

The  Epeira,  therefore,  does  not  inconti- 
nently kill  her  prey  with  her  delicate  bite;  she 
poisons  it  so  as  to  produce  a  gradual  weak- 
ness, which  gives  the  blood-sucker  ample  time 
to  drain  her  victim,  without  the  least  risk, 
before  the  rigor  mortis  stops  the  flow  of 
moisture. 

The  meal  lasts  quite  twenty-four  hours,  if 
the  joint  be  large;  and  to  the  very  end  the 
butchered  insect  retains  a  remnant  of  life,  a 
favourable  condition  for  the  exhausting  of  the 
juices.  Once  again,  we  see  a  skilful  method 
of  slaughter,  very  different  from  the  tactics  in 
use  among  the  expert  paralyzers  or  slayers. 
Here  there  is  no  display  of  anatomical  science. 
Unacquainted  with  the  patient's  structure,  the 
310 


Garden  Spiders:  Pairing  and  Hunting 

Spider  stabs  at  random.  The  virulence  of  the 
poison  does  the  rest. 

There  are,  however,  some  very  few  cases  In 
which  the  bite  is  speedily  mortal.  My  notes 
mention  an  Angular  Epeira  grappling  with  the 
largest  Dragon-fly  In  my  district  {JEshna 
grandis,  LiN.) .  I  myself  had  entangled  in  the 
web  this  head  of  big  game,  which  Is  not  often 
captured  by  the  Epelrse.  The  net  shakes 
violently,  seems  bound  to  break  Its  moorings. 
The  Spider  rushes  from  her  leafy  villa,  runs 
boldly  up  to  the  giantess,  flings  a  single  bundle 
of  ropes  at  her  and,  without  further  precau- 
tions, grips  her  with  her  legs,  tries  to  subdue 
her  and  then  digs  her  fangs  Into  the  Dragon- 
fly's back.  The  bite  Is  prolonged  In  such  a 
way  as  to  astonish  me.  This  Is  not  the  per- 
functory kiss  with  which  I  am  already 
familiar;  it  Is  a  deep,  determined  wound. 
After  striking  her  blow,  the  Spider  retires  to 
a  certain  distance  and  waits  for  her  poison  to 
take  effect. 

I  at  once  remove  the  Dragon-fly.  She  Is 
dead,  really  and  truly  dead.  Laid  upon  my 
table  and  left  alone  for  twenty-four  hours, 
she  makes  not  the  slightest  movement.  A 
prick  of  which  my  lens  cannot  see  the  marks, 

311 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

so  sharp-pointed  are  the  Epeira's  weapons, 
was  enough,  with  a  little  insistence,  to  kill 
the  powerful  animal.  Proportionately,  the 
Rattlesnake,  the  Horned  Viper,  the  Trigono- 
cephalus  and  other  ill-famed  serpents  produce 
less  paralyzing  effects  upon  their  victims. 

And  these  Epeirse,  so  terrible  to  insects,  I 
am  able  to  handle  without  any  fear.  My  skin 
does  not  suit  them.  If  I  persuaded  them  to 
bite  me,  what  would  happen  to  me?  Hardly 
anything.  We  have  more  cause  to  dread  the 
sting  of  a  nettle  than  the  dagger  which  is 
fatal  to  Dragon-flies.  The  same  virus  acts 
differently  upon  this  organism  and  that,  is 
formidable  here  and  quite  mild  there.  What 
kills  the  insect  may  easily  be  harmless  to  us. 
Let  us  not,  however,  generalize  too  far.  The 
Narbonne  Lycosa,  that  other  enthusiastic 
insect-huntress,  would  make  us  pay  dearly  if 
we  attempted  to  take  liberties  with  her. 

It  is  not  uninteresting  to  watch  the  Epeira 
at  dinner.  I  light  upon  one,  the  Banded 
Epeira,  at  the  moment,  about  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  when  she  has  captured  a  Locust. 
Planted  in  the  centre  of  the  web,  on  her 
resting-floor,  she  attacks  the  venison  at  the 
joint  of  a  haunch.  There  is  no  movement,  not 
313 


Garden  Spiders:  Pairing  and  Hunting 

even  of  the  mouth-parts,  as  far  as  I  am  able 
to  discover.  The  mouth  hngers,  close-apphed, 
at  the  point  originally  bitten.  There  are  no 
intermittent  mouthfuls,  with  the  mandibles 
moving  backwards  and  forwards.  It  is  a  sort 
of  continuous  kiss. 

I  visit  my  Epeira  at  intervals.  The  mouth 
does  not  change  its  place.  I  visit  her  for  the 
last  time  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
Matters  stand  exactly  as  they  did:  after  six 
hours'  consumption,  the  mouth  is  still  sucking 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  right  haunch.  The 
fluid  contents  of  the  victim  are  transferred  to 
the  ogress'  belly,  I  know  not  how. 

Next  morning,  the  Spider  is  still  at  table. 
I  take  away  her  dish.  Naught  remains  of  the 
Locust  but  his  skin,  hardly  altered  in  shape, 
but  utterly  drained  and  perforated  in  several 
places.  The  method,  therefore,  was  changed 
during  the  night.  To  extract  the  non-fluent 
residue,  the  viscera  and  muscles,  the  stiff 
cuticle  had  to  be  tapped  here,  there  and  else- 
where, after  which  the  tattered  husk,  placed 
bodily  in  the  press  of  the  mandibles,  would 
have  been  chewed,  rechewed  and  finally  re- 
duced to  a  pill,  which  the  sated  Spider  throws 
up.     This  would  have  been  the  end  of  the 

313 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

victim,  had  I  not  taken  it  away  before  the 
time. 

Whether  she  wound  or  kill,  the  Epeira  bites 
her  captive  somewhere  or  other,  no  matter 
where.  This  is  an  excellent  method  on  her 
part,  because  of  the  variety  of  the  game  that 
comes  her  way.  I  see  her  accepting  with  equal 
readiness  whatever  chance  may  send  her: 
Butterflies  and  Dragon-flies,  Flies  and  Wasps, 
small  Dung-beetles  and  Locusts.  If  I  offer 
her  a  Mantis,  a  Bumble-bee,  an  Anoxia — the 
equivalent  of  the  common  Cockchafer — and 
other  dishes  probably  unknown  to  her  race, 
she  accepts  all  and  any,  large  and  small,  thin- 
skinned  and  horny-skinned,  that  which  goes 
afoot  and  that  which  takes  winged  flight.  She 
is  omnivorous,  she  preys  on  everything,  down 
to  her  own  kind,  should  the  occasion  offer. 

Had  she  to  operate  according  to  individual 
structure,  she  would  need  an  anatomical  dic- 
tionary; and  instinct  is  essentially  unfamiliar 
with  generalities :  its  knowledge  is  always  con- 
fined to  limited  points.  The  Cerceres  know 
their  Weevils  and  their  Buprestis-beetles  abso- 
lutely; the  Sphex  their  Grasshoppers,  their 
Crickets  and  their  Locusts;  the  Scoliae^  their 

*  The  Scolia  is  a  Digger-wasp,  like  the  Cerceris  and 
314 


Garden  Spiders:  Pairing  and  Hunting 

Cetonia-  and  Oryctes-grubs.  Even  so  the 
other  paralyzers.  Each  has  her  own  victim 
and  knows  nothing  of  any  of  the  others. 

The  same  exclusive  tastes  prevail  among  the 
slayers.  Let  us  remember,  in  this  connection, 
Philanthus  apivoriis^  and,  especially,  the 
Thomisus,  the  comely  Spider  who  cuts  Bees' 
throats.  They  understand  the  fatal  blow, 
either  in  the  neck  or  under  the  chin,  a  thing 
which  the  Epeira  does  not  understand;  but, 
just  because  of  this  talent,  they  are  specialists. 
Their  province  is  the  Domestic  Bee. 

Animals  are  a  little  like  ourselves:  they 
excel  in  an  art  only  on  condition  of  special- 
izing In  it.  The  Epeira,  who,  being  omniv- 
orous, Is  obliged  to  generalize,  abandons 
scientific  methods  and  makes  up  for  this  by 
distilling  a  poison  capable  of  producing  torpor 
and  even  death,  no  matter  what  the  point 
attacked. 

the  Sphex,  and  feeds  her  larvae  on  the  grubs  of  the 
Cetonia,  or  Rose-chafer,  and  the  Oryctes,  or  Rhinoceros 
Beetle.  Cf.  The  Life  and  Love  of  the  Insect,  by  J.  Henri 
Fabre,  translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos: 
chap.  xi. — Translator's  Note. 

^  Cf.  Social  Life  in  the  Insect  World,  by  J.  H.  Fabre, 
translated  by  Bernard  Miall :  chap,  xiii.,  in  which  the 
name  is  given,  by  a  printer's  error,  as  Philanthus  avi- 
torus. — Translator's  Note. 

3ib 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

Recognizing  the  large  variety  of  game,  we 
wonder  how  the  Epeira  manages  not  to 
hesitate  amid  those  many  diverse  forms,  how, 
for  instance,  she  passes  from  the  Locust  to  the 
Butterfly,  so  different  in  appearance.  To 
attribute  to  her  as  a  guide  an  extensive  zoo- 
logical knowledge  were  wildly  in  excess  of 
what  we  may  reasonably  expect  of  her  poor 
intelligence.  The  thing  moves,  therefore  it 
is  worth  catching :  this  formula  seems  to  sum 
up  the  Spider's  wisdom. 


316 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   GARDEN   SPIDERS:   THE    QUESTION 
OF    PROPERTY 

A  DOG  has  found  a  bone.  He  lies  in  the 
•*-  ^  shade,  holding  it  between  his  paws,  and 
studies  it  fondly.  It  is  his  sacred  property, 
his  chattel.  An  Epeira  has  woven  her  web. 
Here  again  is  property;  and  owning  a  better 
title  than  the  other.  Favoured  by  chance  and 
assisted  by  his  scent,  the  Dog  has  merely  had 
a  find ;  he  has  neither  worked  nor  paid  for  it. 
The  Spider  is  more  than  a  casual  owner,  she 
has  created  what  is  hers.  Its  substance  issued 
from  her  body,  its  structure  from  her  brain. 
If  ever  property  was  sacrosanct,  hers  is. 

Far  higher  stands  the  work  of  the  weaver 
of  ideas,  who  tissues  a  book,  that  other 
Spider's  web,  and  out  of  his  thought  makes 
something  that  shall  instruct  or  thrill  us.  To 
protect  our  'bone,'  we  have  the  police,  in- 
vented for  the  express  purpose.  To  protect 
the  book,  we  have  none  but  farcical  means. 
Place  a  few  bricks  one  atop  the  other;  join 
317 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

them  with  mortar;  and  the  law  will  defend 
your  wall.  Build  up  in  writing  an  edifice  of 
your  thoughts ;  and  It  will  be  open  to  any  one, 
without  serious  impediment,  to  abstract  stones 
from  it,  even  to  take  the  whole,  if  it  suit  him. 
A  rabbit-hutch  is  property;  the  work  of  the 
mind  is  not.  If  the  animal  has  eccentric  views 
as  regards  the  possessions  of  others,  we  have 
ours  as  well. 

'Might  always  has  the  best  of  the  argu- 
ment,' said  La  Fontaine,  to  the  great  scandal 
of  the  peace-lovers.  The  exigencies  of  verse, 
rhyme  and  rhythm,  carried  the  worthy  fabulist 
further  than  he  intended:  he  meant  to  say 
that,  in  a  fight  between  mastiffs  and  in  other 
brute  conflicts,  the  stronger  is  left  master  of 
the  bone.  He  well  knew  that,  as  things  go, 
success  is  no  certificate  of  excellence.  Others 
came,  the  notorious  evil-doers  of  humanity, 
who  made  a  law  of  the  savage  maxim  that 
might  is  right. 

We  are  the  larvae  with  the  changing  skins, 
the  ugly  caterpillars  of  a  society  that  is  slowly, 
very  slowly,  wending  Its  way  to  the  triumph 
of  right  over  might.  When  will  this  sublime 
metamorphosis  be  accomplished?  To  free 
ourselves  from  those  wild-beast  brutalities, 
.^I8 


Garden  Spiders:   Question  of  Property 

must  we  wait  for  the  ocean-plains  of  the 
southern  hemisphere  to  flow  to  our  side,  chang- 
ing the  face  of  continents  and  renewing  the 
glacial  period  of  the  Reindeer  and  the  Mam- 
moth?    Perhaps,  so  slow  is  moral  progress. 

True,  we  have  the  bicycle,  the  motor-car, 
the  dirigible  airship  and  other  marvellous 
means  of  breaking  our  bones;  but  our  mo- 
rality Is  not  one  rung  the  higher  for  it  all. 
One  would  even  say  that,  the  farther  we 
proceed  in  our  conquest  of  matter,  the  more 
our  morality  recedes.  The  most  advanced  of 
our  inventions  consists  in  bringing  men  down 
with  grapeshot  and  explosives  with  the  swift- 
ness of  the  reaper  mowing  the  corn. 

Would  we  see  this  might  triumphant  in  all 
its  beauty?  Let  us  spend  a  few  weeks  in  the 
Epeira's  company.  She  is  the  owner  of  a  web, 
her  work,  her  most  lawful  property.  The 
question  at  once  presents  itself:  does  the 
Spider  possibly  recognize  her  fabric  by  certain 
trade-marks  and  distinguish  It  from  that  of 
her  fellows? 

I  bring  about  a  change  of  webs  between 
two  neighbouring  Banded  Epelras.  No  sooner 
is  either  placed  upon  the  strange  net  than  she 
makes  for  the  central  floor,   settles  herself 

319 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

head  downwards  and  does  not  stir  from  it, 
satisfied  with  her  neighbour's  web  as  with  her 
own.  Neither  by  day  nor  by  night  does  she 
try  to  shift  her  quarters  and  restore  matters 
to  their  pristine  state.  Both  Spiders  think 
themselves  in  their  own  domain.  The  two 
pieces  of  work  are  so  much  alike  that  I  almost 
expected  this. 

I  then  decide  to  affect  an  exchange  of  webs 
between  two  different  species.  I  move  the 
Banded  Epeira  to  the  net  of  the  Silky  Epeira 
and  vice  versa.  The  two  webs  are  now  dis- 
similar; the  Silky  Epeira's  has  a  limy  spiral 
consisting  of  closer  and  more  numerous  circles. 
What  will  the  Spiders  do,  when  thus  put  to 
the  test  of  the  unknown?  One  would  think 
that,  when  one  of  them  found  meshes  too  wide 
for  her  under  her  feet,  the  other  meshes  too 
narrow,  they  would  be  frightened  by  this  sud- 
den change  and  decamp  in  terror.  Not  at  all. 
Without  a  sign  of  perturbation,  they  remain, 
plant  themselves  In  the  centre  and  await  the 
coming  of  the  game,  as  though  nothing 
extraordinary  had  happened.  They  do  more 
than  this.  Days  pass  and,  as  long  as  the  un- 
familiar web  is  not  wrecked  to  the  extent  of 
being  unserviceable,  they  make  no  attempt  to 
320 


Garden  Spiders:  Question  of  Property- 
weave  another  in  their  own  style.  The 
Spider,  therefore,  is  incapable  of  recognizing 
her  web.  She  takes  another's  work  for  hers, 
even  when  it  is  produced  by  a  stranger  to  her 
race. 

We  now  come  to  the  tragic  side  of  this  con- 
fusion. Wishing  to  have  subjects  for  study 
within  my  daily  reach  and  to  save  myself  the 
trouble  of  casual  excursions,  I  collect  different 
Epeirse  whom  I  find  in  the  course  of  my 
walks  and  establish  them  on  the  shrubs  in  my 
enclosure.  In  this  way,  a  rosemary-hedge, 
sheltered  from  the  wind  and  facing  the  sun,  is 
turned  into  a  well-stocked  menagerie.  I  take 
the  Spiders  from  the  paper  bags  wherein  I  had 
put  them  separately,  to  carry  them,  and  place 
them  on  the  leaves,  with  no  further  precaution. 
It  is  for  them  to  make  themselves  at  home. 
As  a  rule,  they  do  not  budge  all  day  from  the 
place  where  I  put  them :  they  wait  for  night- 
fall before  seeking  a  suitable  site  whereon  to 
weave  a  net. 

Some  among  them  show  less  patience.  A 
little  while  ago,  they  possessed  a  web,  between 
the  reeds  of  a  brook  or  in  the  holm-oak 
copses ;  and  now  they  have  none.  They  go  off 
in  search,  to  recover  their  property  or  seize  on 
321 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

some  one  else's:  it  Is  all  the  same  to  them. 
I  come  upon  a  Banded  Epeira,  newly  im- 
ported, making  for  the  web  of  a  Silky  Epeira 
who  has  been  my  guest  for  some  days  since. 
The  owner  is  at  her  post,  in  the  centre  of  the 
net.  She  awaits  the  stranger  with  seeming 
impassiveness.  Then  suddenly  they  grip  each 
other;  and  a  desperate  fight  begins.  The 
Silky  Epeira  is  worsted.  The  other  swathes 
her  In  bonds,  drags  her  to  the  non-limy  central 
floor  and,  in  the  calmest  fashion,  eats  her. 
The  dead  Spider  is  munched  for  twenty-four 
hours  and  drained  to  the  last  drop,  when  the 
corpse,  a  wretched,  crumpled  ball,  Is  at  last 
flung  aside.  The  web  so  foully  conquered  be- 
comes the  property  of  the  stranger,  who  uses 
it,  if  it  have  not  suffered  too  much  In  the 
contest. 

There  is  here  a  shadow  of  an  excuse.  The 
two  Spiders  were  of  different  species;  and  the 
struggle  for  life  often  leads  to  these  exter- 
minations among  such  as  are  not  akin.  What 
would  happen  if  the  two  belonged  to  the  same 
species?  It  Is  easily  seen.  I  cannot  rely  upon 
spontaneous  invasions,  which  may  be  rare 
under  normal  conditions,  and  I  myself  place  a 
Banded  Epeira  on  her  kinswoman's  web.  A 
322 


Garden  Spiders;  Question  of  Property 

furious  attack  is  made  forthwith.  Victory, 
after  hanging  for  a  moment  in  the  balance, 
is  once  again  decided  in  the  stranger's  fa- 
vour. The  vanquished  party,  this  time  a 
sister,  is  eaten  without  the  slightest  scruple. 
Her  web  becomes  the  property  of  the 
victor. 

There  it  is,  in  all  its  horror,  the  right  of 
might:  to  eat  one's  like  and  take  away  their 
goods.  Man  did  the  same  in  days  of  old :  he 
stripped  and  ate  his  fellows.  We  continue  to 
rob  one  another,  both  as  nations  and  as  indi- 
viduals; but  we  no  longer  eat  one  another: 
the  custom  has  grown  obsolete  since  we  dis- 
covered an  acceptable  substitute  in  the  mutton- 
chop. 

Let  us  not,  however,  blacken  the  Spider 
beyond  her  deserts.  She  does  not  live  by  war- 
ring on  her  kith  and  kin ;  she  does  not  of  her 
own  accord  attempt  the  conquest  of  another's 
property.  It  needs  extraordinary  circum- 
stances to  rouse  her  to  these  villainies.  I  take 
her  from  her  web  and  place  her  on  another's. 
From  that  moment,  she  knows  no  distinction 
between  meum  and  tuum:  the  thing  which 
the  leg  touches  at  once  becomes  real  estate. 
And  the  intruder.  If  she  be  the  stronger,  ends 
323 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

by  eating  the  occupier,  a  radical  means  of 
cutting  short  disputes. 

Apart  from  disturbances  similiar  to  those 
which  I  provoke,  disturbances  that  are 
possible  in  the  everlasting  conflict  of  events, 
the  Spider,  jealous  of  her  own  web,  seems  to 
respect  the  webs  of  others.  She  never  in- 
dulges in  brigandage  against  her  fellows 
except  when  dispossessed  of  her  net,  especially 
in  the  daytime,  for  weaving  is  never  done  by 
day:  this  work  is  reserved  for  the  night. 
When,  however,  she  is  deprived  of  her  liveli- 
hood and  feels  herself  the  stronger,  then  she 
attacks  her  neighbour,  rips  her  open,  feeds  on 
her  and  takes  possession  of  her  goods.  Let 
us  make  allowances  and  proceed. 

We  will  now  examine  Spiders  of  more  alien 
habits.  The  Banded  and  the  Silky  Epeira 
differ  greatly  in  form  and  colouring.  The 
first  has  a  plump,  olive-shaped  belly,  richly 
belted  with  white,  bright-yellow  and  black; 
the  second's  abdomen  is  flat,  of  a  silky  white 
and  pinked  into  festoons.  Judging  only  by 
dress  and  figure,  we  should  not  think  of  closely 
connecting  the  two  Spiders. 

But  high  above  shapes  tower  tendencies, 
those  main  characteristics  which  our  methods 
324 


Garden  Spiders:  Question  of  Property 

of  classification,  so  particular  about  minute 
details  of  form,  ought  to  consult  more  widely 
than  they  do.  The  two  dissimilar  Spiders 
have  exactly  similar  ways  of  living.  Both  of 
them  prefer  to  hunt  by  day  and  never  leave 
their  webs ;  both  sign  their  work  with  a  zigzag 
flourish.  Their  nets  are  almost  identical,  so 
much  so  that  the  Banded  Epeira  uses  the 
Silky  Epelra's  web  after  eating  its  owner. 
The  Silky  Epeira,  on  her  side,  when  she  Is  the 
stronger,  dispossesses  her  belted  cousin  and 
devours  her.  Each  is  at  home  on  the  other's 
web,  when  the  argument  of  might  triumphant 
has  ended  the  discussion. 

Let  us  next  take  the  case  of  the  Cross 
Spider,  a  hairy  beast  of  varying  shades  of 
reddish-brown.  She  has  three  large  white 
spots  upon  her  back,  forming  a  triple-barred 
cross.  She  hunts  mostly  at  night,  shuns  the 
sun  and  lives  by  day  on  the  adjacent  shrubs, 
In  a  shady  retreat  which  communicates  with 
the  lime-snare  by  means  of  a  telegraph-wire. 
Her  web  is  very  similar  in  structure  and  ap- 
pearance to  those  of  the  two  others.  What 
will  happen  if  I  procure  her  the  visit  of  a 
Banded  Epeira  ? 

The  lady  of  the  triple  cross  is  invaded  by 

32s 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

day,  in  the  full  light  of  the  sun,  thanks  to  my 
mischievous  intermediary.  The  web  is  de- 
serted; the  proprietress  is  in  her  leafy  hut. 
The  telegraph-wire  performs  its  office;  the 
Cross  Spider  hastens  down,  strides  all  round 
her  property,  beholds  the  danger  and 
hurriedly  returns  to  her  hiding-place,  with- 
out taking  any  measures  against  the  in- 
truder. 

The  latter,  on  her  side,  does  not  seem  to  be 
enjoying  herself.  Were  she  placed  on  the  web 
of  one  of  her  sisters,  or  even  on  that  of  the 
Silky  Epeira,  she  would  have  posted  herself  in 
the  centre,  as  soon  as  the  struggle  had  ended 
in  the  other's  death.  This  time  there  is  no 
struggle,  for  the  web  is  deserted;  nothing 
prevents  her  from  taking  her  position  in  the 
centre,  the  chief  strategic  point;  and  yet 
she  does  not  move  from  the  place  where  I  put 
her. 

I  tickle  her  gently  with  the  tip  of  a  long 
straw.  When  at  home,  if  teased  in  this  way, 
the  Banded  Epeira — like  the  others,  for  that 
matter — violently  shakes  the  web  to  intim- 
idate the  aggressor.  This  time,  nothing 
happens :  despite  my  repeated  enticements,  the 
Spider  does  not  stir  a  limb.  It  is  as  though 
326 


Garden  Spiders:  Question  of  Property 

she  were  numbed  with  terror.  And  she  has 
reason  to  be :  the  other  is  watching  her  from 
her  lofty  loop-hole. 

This  is  probably  not  the  only  cause  of  her 
fright.  When  my  straw  does  induce  her  to 
take  a  few  steps,  I  see  her  lift  her  legs  with 
some  difficulty.  She  tugs  a  bit,  drags  her  tarsi 
till  she  almost  breaks  the  supporting  threads. 
It  is  not  the  progress  of  an  agile  rope-walker; 
it  is  the  hesitating  gait  of  entangled  feet. 
Perhaps  the  lime-threads  are  stickier  than  in 
her  own  web.  The  glue  is  of  a  different 
quality;  and  her  sandals  are  not  greased  to  the 
extent  which  the  new  degree  of  adhesiveness 
would  demand. 

Anyhow,  things  remain  as  they  are  for  long 
hours  on  end:  the  Banded  Epeira  motionless 
on  the  edge  of  the  web;  the  other  lurking  in 
her  hut;  both  apparently  most  uneasy.  At 
sunset,  the  lover  of  darkness  plucks  up 
courage.  She  descends  from  her  green  tent 
and,  without  troubling  about  the  stranger, 
goes  straight  to  the  centre  of  the  web,  where 
the  telegraph-wire  brings  her.  Panic-stricken 
at  this  apparition,  the  Banded  Epeira  releases 
herself  with  a  jerk  and  disappears  in  the 
rosemary-thicket. 

327 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

The  experiment,  though  repeatedly  re- 
newed with  different  subjects,  gave  me  no 
other  results.  Distrustful  of  a  web  dissimilar 
to  her  own,  if  not  in  structure,  at  least  in  stick- 
iness, the  bold  Banded  Epeira  shows  the  white 
feather  and  refuses  to  attack  the  Cross  Spider. 
The  latter,  on  her  side,  either  does  not  budge 
from  her  day  shelter  in  the  foliage,  or  else 
rushes  back  to  it,  after  taking  a  hurried  glance 
at  the  stranger.  She  here  awaits  the  coming 
of  the  night.  Under  favour  of  the  darkness, 
which  gives  her  fresh  courage  and  activity,  she 
reappears  upon  the  scene  and  puts  the  intruder 
to  flight  by  her  mere  presence,  aided,  if  need 
be,  by  a  cuff  or  two.  Injured  right  is  the 
victor. 

Morality  is  satisfied;  but  let  us  not  con- 
gratulate the  Spider  therefore.  If  the  invader 
respects  the  invaded,  it  is  because  very  serious 
reasons  impel  her.  First,  she  would  have  to 
contend  with  an  adversary  ensconced  in  a 
stronghold  whose  ambushes  are  unknown  to 
the  assailant.  Secondly,  the  web,  if  con- 
quered, would  be  inconvenient  to  use,  because 
of  the  lime-threads,  possessing  a  different  de- 
gree of  stickiness  from  those  which  she  knows 
so  well.  To  risk  one's  skin  for  a  thing  of 
328 


Garden  Spiders:  Question  of  Property 

doubtful  value  were  twice  foolish.  The 
Spider  knows  this  and  forbears. 

But  let  the  Banded  Epeira,  deprived  of  her 
web,  come  upon  that  of  one  of  her  kind  or  of 
the  Silky  Epeira,  who  works  her  gummy  twine 
in  the  same  manner :  then  discretion  is  thrown 
to  the  winds ;  the  owner  is  fiercely  ripped  open 
and  possession  taken  of  the  property. 

Might  is  right,  says  the  beast;  or,  rather,  It 
knows  no  right.  The  animal  world  is  a  rout 
of  appetites,  acknowledging  no  other  rein 
than  impotence.  Mankind,  alone  capable  of 
emerging  from  the  slough  of  the  instincts,  is 
bringing  equity  into  being,  is  creating  it  slowly 
as  its  conception  grows  clearer.  Out  of  the 
sacred  rushlight,  so  flickering  as  yet,  but  gain- 
ing strength  from  age  to  age,  man  will  make  a 
flaming  torch  that  will  put  an  end,  among  us, 
to  the  principles  of  the  brutes  and  one  day, 
utterly  change  the  face  of  society. 


329 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    LABYRINTH    SPIDER 

WHILE  the  Epeirae,  with  their  gor- 
geous net-tapestries,  are  incomparable 
weavers,  many  other  Spiders  excel  in  ingenious 
devices  for  filling  their  stomachs  and  leaving 
a  lineage  behind  them :  the  two  primary  laws 
of  hving  things.  Some  of  them  are  celebrities 
of  long-standing  renown,  who  are  mentioned 
in  all  the  books. 

Certain  Mygales^  inhabit  a  burrow,  like  the 
Narbonne  Lycosa,  but  of  a  perfection  un- 
known to  the  brutal  Spider  of  the  waste-lands. 
The  Lycosa  surrounds  the  mouth  of  her  shaft 
with  a  simple  parapet,  a  mere  collection  of 
tiny  pebbles,  sticks  and  silk;  the  others  fix  a 
movable  door  to  theirs,  a  round  shutter  with 
a  hinge,  a  groove  and  a  set  of  bolts.  When 
the  My  gale  comes  home,  the  lid  drops  into  the 
groove  and  fits  so  exactly  that  there  is  no 
possibility  of  distinguishing  the  join.     If  the 

*  Or  Bird  Spiders,  known  also  as  the  American  Taran- 
tula.— Translatoi-'s  Note. 

330 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

aggressor  persist  and  seek  to  raise  the  trap- 
door, the  recluse  pushes  the  bolt,  that  is  to  say, 
plants  her  claws  Into  certain  holes  on  the  op- 
posite side  to  the  hinge,  props  herself  against 
the  wall  and  holds  the  door  firmly. 

Another,  the  Argyroneta,  or  Water  Spider, 
builds  herself  an  elegant  silken  diving-bell,  in 
which  she  stores  air.  Thus  supplied  with  the 
wherewithal  to  breathe,  she  awaits  the  com- 
ing of  the  game  and  keeps  herself  cool  mean- 
while. At  times  of  scorching  heat,  hers  must 
be  a  regular  sybaritic  abode,  such  as  eccentric 
man  has  sometimes  ventured  to  build  under 
water,  with  mighty  blocks  of  stone  and 
marble.  The  submarine  palaces  of  Tiberius 
are  no  more  than  an  odious  memory;  the 
Water  Spider's  dainty  cupola  still  flourishes. 

If  I  possessed  documents  derived  from  per- 
sonal observation,  I  should  like  to  speak  of 
these  Ingenious  workers;  I  would  gladly  add 
a  few  unpublished  facts  to  their  life-history. 
But  I  must  abandon  the  idea.  The  Water 
Spider  is  not  found  in  my  district.  The 
Mygale,  the  expert  In  hinged  doors,  is  found 
there,  but  very  seldom.  I  saw  one  once,  on 
the  edge  of  a  path  skirting  a  copse.  Oppor- 
tunity, as  we  know,  is  fleeting.  The  observer, 
331 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

more  than  any  other,  Is  obliged  to  take  it  by 
the  forelock.  Preoccupied  as  I  was  with  other 
researches,  I  but  gave  a  glance  at  the  mag- 
nificent subject  which  good  fortune  offered. 
The  opportunity  fled  and  has  never  returned. 

Let  us  make  up  for  it  with  trivial  things  of 
frequent  encounter,  a  condition  favourable  to 
consecutive  study.  What  is  common  is  not 
necessarily  unimportant.  Give  it  our  sus- 
tained attention  and  we  shall  discover  in  it 
merits  which  our  former  ignorance  prevented 
us  from  seeing.  When  patiently  entreated, 
the  least  of  creatures  adds  its  note  to  the  har- 
monies of  life. 

In  the  fields  around,  traversed,  in  these 
days,  with  a  tired  step,  but  still  vigilantly 
explored,  I  find  nothing  so  often  as  the 
Labyrinth  Spider  {Agelena  labyrinthica, 
Clerck.).  Not  a  hedge  but  shelters  a  few 
at  its  foot,  amid  the  grass,  in  quiet,  sunny 
nooks.  In  the  open  country  and  especially  in 
hilly  places  laid  bare  by  the  woodman's  axe, 
the  favourite  sites  are  tufts  of  bracken,  rock- 
rose,  lavender,  everlasting  and  rosemary 
cropped  close  by  the  teeth  of  the  flocks.  This 
is  where  I  resort,  as  the  isolation  and  kind- 
liness of  the  supports  lend  themselves  to  pro- 

332 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

ceedings  which  might  not  be  tolerated  by  the 
unfriendly  hedge. 

Several  times  a  week,  in  July,  I  go  to  study 
my  Spiders  on  the  spot,  at  an  early  hour, 
before  the  sun  beats  fiercely  on  one's  neck. 
The  children  accompany  me,  each  provided 
with  an  orange  wherewith  to  slake  the  thirst 
that  will  not  be  slow  in  coming.  They  lend 
me  their  good  eyes  and  supple  limbs.  The 
expedition  promises  to  be  fruitful. 

We  soon  discover  high  silk  buildings,  be- 
trayed at  a  distance  by  the  glittering  threads 
which  the  dawn  has  converted  into  dewy 
rosaries.  The  children  are  wonderstruck  at 
those  glorious  chandeliers,  so  much  so  that 
they  forget  their  oranges  for  a  moment.  Nor 
am  I,  on  my  part,  indifferent,  A  splendid 
spectacle  indeed  is  that  of  our  Spider's  laby- 
rinth, heavy  with  the  tears  of  the  night  and  lit 
up  by  the  first  rays  of  the  sun.  Accompanied 
as  it  is  by  the  Thrushes'  symphony,  this  alone 
is  worth  getting  up  for. 

Half  an  hour's  heat;  and  the  magic  jewels 
disappear  with  the  dew.  Now  is  the  moment 
to  inspect  the  webs.  Here  is  one  spreading  its 
sheet  over  a  large  cluster  of  rock-roses;  it  Is 
the  size  of  a  handkerchief.     A  profusion  of 

333 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

guy-ropes,  attached  to  any  chance  projection, 
moor  it  to  the  brushwood.  There  is  not  a 
twig  but  supphes  a  contact-point.  Entwined 
on  every  side,  surrounded  and  surmounted,  the 
bush  disappears  from  view,  veiled  in  white 
muslin. 

The  web  is  flat  at  the  edges,  as  far  as  the 
unevenness  of  the  support  permits,  and  gradu- 
ally hollows  into  a  crater,  not  unlike  the  bell 
of  a  hunting-horn.  The  central  portion  is  a 
cone-shaped  gulf,  a  funnel  whose  neck, 
narrowing  by  degrees,  dives  perpendicularly 
into  the  leafy  thicket  to  a  depth  of  eight  or 
nine  inches. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  tube,  in  the  gloom  of 
that  murderous  alley,  sits  the  Spider,  who 
looks  at  us  and  betrays  no  great  excitement  at 
our  presence.  She  is  grey,  modestly  adorned 
on  the  thorax  with  two  black  ribbons  and  on 
the  abdomen  with  two  stripes  in  which  white 
specks  alternate  with  brown.  At  the  tip  of  the 
belly,  two  small,  mobile  appendages  form  a 
sort  of  tail,  a  rather  curious  feature  in  a 
Spider. 

The  crater-shaped  web  is  not  of  the  same 
structure  throughout.  At  the  borders,  it  is  a 
gossamer  weft  of  sparse  threads;  nearer  the 

334 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

centre,  the  texture  becomes  first  fine  muslin 
and  then  satin;  lower  still,  on  the  narrower 
part  of  the  opening,  it  is  a  network  of  roughly 
lozenged  meshes.  Lastly,  the  neck  of  the 
funnel,  the  usual  resting-place,  is  formed  of 
solid  silk. 

The  Spider  never  ceases  working  at  her 
carpet,  which  represents  her  investigation- 
platform.  Every  night  she  goes  to  it,  walks 
over  it,  inspecting  her  snares,  extending  her 
domain  and  increasing  it  with  new  threads. 
The  work  is  done  with  the  silk  constantly 
hanging  from  the  spinnerets  and  constantly 
extracted  as  the  animal  moves  about.  The 
neck  of  the  funnel,  being  more  often  walked 
upon  than  the  rest  of  the  dwelling,  is  therefore 
provided  with  a  thicker  upholstery.  Beyond 
it  are  the  slopes  of  the  crater,  which  are  also 
much-frequented  regions.  Spokes  of  some 
regularity  fix  the  diameter  of  the  mouth;  a 
swaying  walk  and  the  guiding  aid  of  the 
caudal  appendages  have  laid  lozengy  meshes 
across  these  spokes.  This  part  has  been 
strengthened  by  the  nightly  rounds  of  inspec- 
tion. Lastly  come  the  less-visited  expanses, 
which  consequently  have  a  thinner  carpet. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  passage  dippmg  into 

335 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  brushwood,  we  might  expect  to  find  a 
secret  cabin,  a  wadded  cell  where  the  Spider 
would  take  refuge  in  her  hours  of  leisure. 
The  reality  is  something  entirely  different. 
The  long  funnel-neck  gapes  at  its  lower  end, 
where  a  private  door  stands  always  ajar, 
allowing  the  animal,  when  hard-pushed,  to 
escape  through  the  grass  and  gain  the  open. 

It  is  well  to  know  this  arrangement  of  the 
home,  if  you  wish  to  capture  the  Spider  with- 
out hurting  her.  When  attacked  from  the 
front,  the  fugitive  runs  down  and  slips 
through  the  postern-gate  at  the  bottom.  To 
look  for  her  by  rummaging  in  the  brushwood 
often  leads  to  nothing,  so  swift  is  her  flight; 
besides,  a  blind  search  entails  a  great  risk  of 
maiming  her.  Let  us  eschew  violence, 
which  is  but  seldom  successful,  and  resort  to 
craft. 

We  catch  sight  of  the  Spider  at  the  entrance 
to  her  tube.  If  practicable,  squeeze  the 
bottom  of  the  tuft,  containing  the  neck  of  the 
funnel,  with  both  hands.  That  is  enough; 
the  animal  is  caught.  Feeling  its  retreat  cut 
off,  it  readily  darts  into  the  paper  screw  held 
out  to  it;  if  necessary,  it  can  be  stimulated 
with  a  bit  of  straw.  In  this  way,  I  fill  my 
336 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

cages  with  subjects  that  have  not  been  de- 
moralized by  contusions. 

The  surface  of  the  crater  is  not  exactly  a 
snare.  It  is  just  possible  for  the  casual  pedes- 
trian to  catch  his  legs  in  the  silky  carpets; 
but  giddy-pates  who  come  here  for  a  walk 
must  be  very  rare.  What  is  wanted  is  a  trap 
capable  of  securing  the  game  that  hops  or  flies. 
The  Epeira  has  her  treacherous  limed  net;  the 
Spider  of  the  bushes  has  her  no  less  treach- 
erous labyrinth. 

Look  above  the  web.  What  a  forest  of 
ropes !  It  might  be  the  rigging  of  a  ship  dis- 
abled by  a  storm.  They  run  from  every  twig 
of  the  supporting  shrubs,  they  are  fastened  to 
the  tip  of  every  branch.  There  are  long  ropes 
and  short  ropes,  upright  and  slanting,  straight 
and  bent,  taut  and  slack,  all  criss-cross  and 
a-tangle,  to  the  height  of  three  feet  or  so  in 
inextricable  disorder.  The  whole  forms  a 
chaos  of  netting,  a  labyrinth  which  none  can 
pass  through,  unless  he  be  endowed  with  wings 
of  exceptional  power. 

We  have  here  nothing  similar  to  the  lime- 
threads  used  by  the  Garden  Spiders.  The 
threads  are  not  sticky;  they  act  only  by  their 
confused  multitude.     Would  you  care  to  see 

227 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  trap  at  work  ?  Throw  a  small  Locust  into 
the  rigging.  Unable  to  obtain  a  steady  foot- 
hold on  that  shaky  support,  he  flounders 
about;  and  the  more  he  struggles  the  more  he 
entangles  his  shackles.  The  Spider,  spying  on 
the  threshold  of  her  abyss,  lets  him  have  his 
way.  She  does  not  run  up  the  shrouds  of  the 
mast-work  to  seize  the  desperate  prisoner;  she 
waits  until  his  bonds  of  threads,  twisted  back- 
wards and  forwards,  make  him  fall  on  the 
web. 

He  falls;  the  other  comes  and  flings  herself 
upon  her  prostrate  prey.  The  attack  is  not 
without  danger.  The  Locust  is  demoralized 
rather  than  tied  up;  it  is  merely  bits  of  broken 
thread  that  he  is  trailing  from  his  legs.  The 
bold  assailant  does  not  mind.  Without  troub- 
ling, like  the  Epeirae,  to  bury  her  capture  un- 
der a  paralyzing  shroud,  she  feels  it,  to  make 
sure  of  its  quality,  and  then,  regardless  of 
kicks,  Inserts  her  fangs. 

The  bite  is  usually  given  at  the  lower  end  of 
a  haunch :  not  that  this  place  is  more  vulner- 
able than  any  other  thin-skinned  part,  but 
probably  because  it  has  a  better  flavour.  The 
different  webs  which  I  inspect  to  study  the 
food  in  the  larder  show  me,  among  other 
338 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

joints,  various  Flies  and  small  Butterflies  and 
carcasses  of  almost-untouched  Locusts,  all 
deprived  of  their  hind-legs,  or  at  least  of  one. 
Locusts'  legs  often  dangle,  emptied  of  their 
s-ucculent  contents,  on  the  edges  of  the  web, 
from  the  meat-hooks  of  the  butcher's  shop. 
In  my  urchin-days,  days  free  from  prejudices 
in  regard  to  what  one  ate,  I,  like  many  others, 
was  able  to  appreciate  that  dainty.  It  is  the 
equivalent,  on  a  very  small  scale,  of  the  larger 
legs  of  the  Crayfish. 

The  rigging-builder,  therefore,  to  whom  we 
have  just  thrown  a  Locust  attacks  the  prey  at 
the  lower  end  of  a  thigh.  The  bite  is  a 
lingering  one :  once  the  Spider  has  planted  her 
fangs,  she  does  not  let  go.  She  drinks,  she 
sips,  she  sucks.  When  this  first  point  is 
drained,  she  passes  on  to  others,  to  the  second 
haunch  in  particular,  until  the  prey  becomes  an 
empty  hulk  without  losing  its  outline. 

We  have  seen  that  Garden  Spiders  feed  In  a 
similar  way,  bleeding  their  venison  and  drink- 
ing it  instead  of  eating  it.  At  last,  however, 
in  the  comfortable  post-prandial  hours,  they 
take  up  the  drained  morsel,  chew  it,  rechew  it 
and  reduce  it  to  a  shapeless  ball.  It  is  a 
dessert  for  the  teeth  to  toy  with.    The  Laby- 

339 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

rinth  Spider  knows  nothing  of  the  diversions 
of  the  table;  she  flings  the  drained  remnants 
out  of  her  web,  without  chewing  them. 
Although  it  lasts  long,  the  meal  is  eaten  in 
perfect  safety.  From  the  first  bite,  the  Locust 
becomes  a  lifeless  thing;  the  Spider's  poison 
has  settled  him. 

The  labyrinth  Is  greatly  inferior,  as  a  work 
of  art,  to  that  advanced  geometrical  con- 
trivance, the  Garden  Spider's  net;  and,  in  spite 
of  its  Ingenuity,  It  does  not  give  a  favourable 
notion  of  Its  constructor.  It  Is  hardly  more 
than  a  shapeless  scaffolding,  run  up  anyhow. 
And  yet,  like  the  others,  the  builder  of  this 
slovenly  edifice  must  have  her  own  principles 
of  beauty  and  accuracy.  As  It  Is,  the  prettily- 
latticed  mouth  of  the  crater  makes  us  suspect 
this;  the  nest,  the  mother's  usual  masterpiece, 
will  prove  it  to  the  full. 

When  laying-time  Is  at  hand,  the  Spider 
changes  her  residence;  she  abandons  her  web 
in  excellent  condition;  she  does  not  return  to 
it.  Whoso  will  can  take  possession  of  the 
house.  The  hour  has  come  to  found  the 
family-establishment.  But  where?  The 
Spider  knows  right  well;  I  am  in  the  dark. 
Mornings  are  spent  in  fruitless  searches.  In 
340 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

vain  I  ransack  the  bushes  that  carry  the  webs : 
I  never  find  aught  that  realizes  my  hopes. 

I  learn  the  secret  at  last.  I  chance  upon  a 
Web  which,  though  deserted,  is  not  yet  dilapi- 
dated, proving  that  it  has  been  but  lately 
quitted.  Instead  of  hunting  in  the  brushwood 
whereon  it  rests,  let  us  inspect  the  neighbour- 
hood, to  a  distance  of  a  few  paces.  If  these 
contain  a  low,  thick  cluster,  the  nest  is  there, 
hidden  from  the  eye.  It  carries  an  authentic 
certificate  of  its  origin,  for  the  mother  invarl-r 
ably  occupies  it. 

By  this  method  of  Investigation,  far  from 
the  labyrinth-trap,  I  become  the  owner  of  as 
many  nests  as  are  needed  to  satisfy  my  curi- 
osity. They  do  not  by  a  long  way  come  up 
to  my  idea  of  the  maternal  talent.  They  are 
clumsy  bundles  of  dead  leaves,  roughly  drawn 
together  with  silk  threads.  Under  this  rude 
covering  is  a  pouch  of  fine  texture  containing 
the  egg-casket,  all  in  very  bad  condition,  be- 
cause of  the  inevitable  tears  incurred  in  its 
extrication  from  the  brushwood.  No,  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  judge  of  the  artist's  capacity  by 
these  rags  and  tatters. 

The  insect,  in  its  buildings,  has  Its  own 
architectural  rules,  rules  as  unchangeable  as 
341 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

anatomical  peculiarities.  Each  group  builds 
according  to  the  same  set  of  principles,  con- 
forming to  the  laws  of  a  very  elementary 
system  of  aesthetics;  but  often  circumstances 
beyond  the  architect's  control — the  space  at 
her  disposal,  the  unevenness  of  the  site,  the 
nature  of  the  material  and  other  accidental 
causes — interfere  with  the  worker's  plans  and 
disturb  the  structure.  Then  virtual  regularity 
is  translated  into  actual  chaos;  order  degen- 
erates into  disorder. 

We  might  discover  an  interesting  subject  of 
research  in  the  type  adopted  by  each  species 
when  the  work  is  accomplished  without  hin- 
drances. The  Banded  Epeira  weaves  the  wal- 
let of  her  eggs  in  the  open,  on  a  slim  branch 
that  does  not  get  in  her  way;  and  her  work  is  a 
superbly  artistic  jar.  The  Silky  Epeira  also 
has  all  the  elbow-room  she  needs;  and  her 
paraboloid  is  not  without  elegance.  Can  the 
Labyrinth  Spider,  that  other  spinstress  of  ac- 
complished merit,  be  ignorant  of  the  precepts 
of  beauty  when  the  time  comes  for  her  to 
weave  a  tent  for  her  offspring?  As  yet,  what 
I  have  seen  of  her  work  is  but  an  unsightly 
bundle.    Is  that  all  she  can  do? 

I  look  for  better  things  if  circumstances 
342 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

favour  her.  Toiling  in  the  midst  of  a  dense 
thicket,  among  a  tangle  of  dead  leaves  and 
twigs,  she  may  well  produce  a  very  inaccurate 
piece  of  work;  but  compel  her  to  labour  when 
free  from  all  impediment:  she  will  then — I 
am  convinced  of  it  beforehand — apply  her 
talents  without  constraint  and  show  herself  an 
adept  in  the  building  of  graceful  nests. 

As  laying-time  approaches,  towards  the 
middle  of  August,  I  instal  half-a-dozen  Laby- 
rinth Spiders  in  large  wire-gauze  cages,  each 
standing  in  an  earthen  pan  filled  with  sand. 
A  sprig  of  thyme,  planted  in  the  centre,  will 
furnish  supports  for  the  structure,  together 
with  the  treUis-work  of  the  top  and  sides. 
There  is  no  other  furniture,  no  dead  leaves, 
which  would  spoil  the  shape  of  the  nest  if  the 
mother  were  minded  to  employ  them  as  a 
covering.  By  way  of  provision,  Locusts,  every 
day.  They  are  readily  accepted,  provided 
they  be  tender  and  not  too  large. 

The  experiment  works  perfectly.  August  is 
hardly  over  before  I  am  in  possession  of  six 
nests,  magnificent  in  shape  and  of  a  dazzling 
whiteness.  The  latitude  of  the  workshop  has 
enabled  the  spinstress  to  follow  the  inspiration 
of  her  instinct  without  serious  obstacles;  and 

343 

/ 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  result  is  a  masterpiece  of  symmetry  and 
elegance,  if  we  allow  for  a  few  angularities 
demanded  by  the  suspension-points. 

It  is  an  oval  of  exquisite  white  muslin,  a 
diaphanous  abode  wherein  the  mother  must 
make  a  long  stay  to  watch  over  the  brood. 
The  size  is  nearly  that  of  a  Hen's  egg.  The 
cabin  is  open  at  either  end.  The  front- 
entrance  broadens  into  a  gallery;  the  back- 
entrance  tapers  mto  a  funnel-neck.  I  fail  to 
see  the  object  of  this  neck.  As  for  the  open- 
ing in  front,  which  is  wider,  this  is,  beyond  a 
doubt,  a  victualling-door.  I  see  the  Spider,  at 
intervals,  standing  here  on  the  look-out  for  the 
Locust,  whom  she  consumes  outside,  taking 
care  not  to  soil  the  spotless  sanctuary  with 
corpses. 

The  structure  of  the  nest  is  not  without  a 
certain  similarity  to  that  of  the  home  oc- 
cupied during  the  hunting-season.  The 
passage  at  the  back  represents  the  funnel-neck 
that  ran  almost  down  to  the  ground  and 
afforded  an  outlet  for  flight  In  case  of  grave 
danger.  The  one  in  front,  expanding  into  a 
mouth  kept  wide  open  by  cords  stretched  back- 
wards and  forward,  recalls  the  yawning  gulf 
into  which  the  victims  used  to  fall.  Every 
344 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

part  of  the  old  dwelling  is  repeated :  even  the 
labyrinth,  though  this,  it  is  true,  is  on  a  much 
smaller  scale.  In  front  of  the  bell-shaped 
mouth  is  a  tangle  of  threads  wherein  the 
passers-by  are  caught.  Each  species,  in  this 
way,  possesses  a  primary  architectural  model 
which  is  followed  as  a  whole,  in  spite  of 
altered  conditions.  The  animal  knows  its 
trade  thoroughly,  but  it  does  not  know  and 
will  never  know  aught  else,  being  incapable  of 
originality. 

Now  this  palace  of  silk,  when  all  is  said,  is 
nothing  more  than  a  guard-house.  Behind  the 
soft,  milky  opalescence  of  the  wall  glimmers 
the  egg-tabernacle,  with  Its  form  vaguely  sug- 
gesting the  star  of  some  order  of  knighthood. 
It  Is  a  large  pocket,  of  a  splendid  dead-white, 
isolated  on  every  side  by  radiating  pillars 
which  keep  It  motionless  in  the  centre  of  the 
tapestry.  These  pillars  are  about  ten  in  num- 
ber and  are  slender  In  the  middle,  expanding 
at  one  end  into  a  conical  capital  and  at  the 
other  into  a  base  of  the  same  shape.  They 
face  one  another  and  mark  the  position  of  the 
vaulted  corridors  which  allow  free  movement 
in  every  direction  around  the  central  chamber. 
The  mother  walks  gravely  to  and  fro  under 

345 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  arches  of  her  cloisters;  she  stops  first  here, 
then  there;  she  makes  a  lengthy  auscultation 
of  the  egg-wallet;  she  listens  to  all  that  hap- 
pens inside  the  satin  wrapper.  To  disturb  her 
would  be  barbarous. 

For  a  closer  examination,  let  us  use  the 
dilapidated  nests  which  we  brought  from  the 
fields.  Apart  from  its  pillars,  the  egg-pocket 
is  an  inverted  conoid,  reminding  us  of  the 
work  of  the  Silky  Epeira.  Its  material  is 
rather  stout;  my  pincers,  pulling  at  it,  do  not 
tear  it  without  difficulty.  Inside  the  bag  there 
is  nothing  but  an  extremely  fine,  white  wad- 
ding and,  lastly,  the  eggs,  numbering  about  a 
hundred  and  comparatively  large,  for  they 
measure  a  millimetre  and  a  half.^  They  are 
very  pale  amber-yellow  beads,  which  do  not 
stick  together  and  which  roll  freely  as  soon  as 
I  remove  the  swan's-down  shroud.  Let  us  put 
everything  into  a  glass-tube  to  study  the 
hatching. 

We  will  now  retrace  our  steps  a  little. 
When  laying-time  comes,  the  mother  forsakes 
her  dwelling,  her  crater  into  which  her  falling 
victims  dropped,  her  labyrinth  in  which  the 
flight  of  the  Midges  was  cut  short;  she  leaves 

*  .059  inch. — Translator's  Note. 
346 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

intact  the  apparatus  that  enabled  her  to  live 
at  her  ease.  Thoughtful  of  her  natural  duties, 
she  goes  to  found  another  establishment  at  a 
distance.    Why  at  a  distance? 

She  has  still  a  few  long  months  to  live  and 
she  needs  norishment.  Were  it  not  better, 
then,  to  lodge  the  eggs  In  the  immediate 
neighbourhood  of  the  present  home  and  to 
continue  her  hunting  with  the  excellent  snare 
at  her  disposal?  The  watching  of  the  nest 
and  the  easy  acquisition  of  provender  would 
go  hand  in  hand.  The  Spider  is  of  another 
opinion ;  and  I  suspect  the  reason. 

The  sheet-net  and  the  labyrinth  that  sur- 
mounts it  are  objects  visible  from  afar,  owing 
to  their  whiteness  and  the  height  whereat  they 
are  placed.  Their  scintillation  In  the  sun,  In 
frequented  paths,  attracts  Mosquitoes  and 
Butterflies,  like  the  lamps  In  our  rooms  and 
the  fowler's  looking-glass.  Whoso  comes  to 
look  at  the  bright  thing  too  closely  dies  the 
victim  of  his  curiosity.  There  is  nothing 
better  for  playing  upon  the  folly  of  the 
passer-by,  but  also  nothing  more  dangerous  to 
the  safety  of  the  family. 

Harpies  will  not  fail  to  come  running  at 
this   signal,   showing  up  against  the  green ; 

347 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

guided  by  the  position  of  the  web,  they  will 
assuredly  find  the  precious  purse;  and  a 
strange  grub,  feasting  on  a  hundred  new-laid 
eggs,  will  ruin  the  establishment.  I  do  not 
know  these  enemies,  not  having  sufficient 
materials  at  my  disposal  for  a  register  of  the 
parasites;  but,  from  indications  gathered  else- 
where, I  suspect  them. 

The  Banded  Epeira,  trusting  to  the  strength 
of  her  stuff,  fixes  her  nest  in  the  sight  of  all, 
hangs  it  on  the  brushwood,  taking  no  pre- 
cautions whatever  to  hide  it.  And  a  bad 
business  it  proves  for  her.  Her  jar  provides 
me  with  an  Ichneumon^  possessed  of  the  inoc- 
ulating larding-pin :  a  Cryptus  who,  as  a 
grub,  had  fed  on  Spiders'  eggs.  Nothing  but 
empty  shells  was  left  inside  the  central  keg; 
the  germs  were  completely  exterminated. 
There  are  other  Ichneumon-flies,  moreover, 
addicted  to  robbing  Spiders'  nests;  a  basket 
of  fresh  eggs  is  their  offspring's  regular  food. 

Like    any    other,    the    Labyrinth    Spider 

^The  Ichneumon-flies  are  very  small  insects  which 
carry  long  ovipositors,  wherewith  they  lay  their  eggs  in 
the  eggs  of  other  insects  and  also,  more  especially,  in 
caterpillars.  Their  parasitic  larvse  live  and  develop  at 
the  expense  of  the  egg  or  grub  attacked,  which  degen- 
erates in  consequence. — Translator's  Note. 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

dreads  the  scoundrelly  advent  of  the  pick- 
wallet;  she  provides  for  it  and,  to  shield  her- 
self against  it  as  far  as  possible,  chooses  a 
hiding-place  outside  her  dwelling,  far  re- 
moved from  the  tell-tale  web.  When  she 
feels  her  ovaries  ripen,  she  shifts  her  quarters; 
she  goes  off  at  night  to  explore  the  neighbour- 
hood and  seek  a  less  dangerous  refuge.  The 
points  selected  are,  by  preference,  the  low 
brambles  dragging  along  the  ground,  keeping 
their  dense  verdure  during  the  winter  and 
crammed  with  dead  leaves  from  the  oaks  hard 
by.  Rosemary-tufts,  which  gain  in  thickness 
what  they  lose  in  height  on  the  unfostering 
rock,  suit  her  particularly.  This  is  where  I 
usually  find  her  nest,  not  without  long  seeking, 
so  well  is  it  hidden. 

So  far,  there  is  no  departure  from  current 
usage.  As  the  world  is  full  of  creatures  on 
the  prowl  for  tender  mouthfuls,  every  mother 
has  her  apprehensions;  she  also  has  her  nat- 
ural wisdom,  which  advises  her  to  establish 
her  family  in  secret  places.  Very  few  neglect 
this  precaution;  each,  in  her  own  manner,  con- 
ceals the  eggs  she  lays. 

In  the  case  of  the  Labyrinth  Spider,  the 
protection  of  the  brood  is  complicated  by 
349 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

another  condition.  In  the  vast  majority  of 
instances,  the  eggs,  once  lodged  in  a  favour- 
able spot,  are  abandoned  to  themselves,  left 
to  the  chances  of  good  or  ill  fortune.  The 
Spider  of  the  brush-wood,  on  the  contrary,  en- 
dowed with  greater  maternal  devotion,  has, 
like  the  Crab  Spider,  to  mount  guard  over 
hers  until  they  hatch. 

With  a  few  threads  and  some  small  leaves 
joined  together,  the  Crab  Spider  builds, 
above  her  lofty  nest,  a  rudimentary  watch- 
tower  where  she  stays  permanently,  greatly 
emaciated,  flattened  into  a  sort  of  wrinkled 
shell  through  the  emptying  of  her  ovaries  and 
the  total  absence  of  food.  And  this  mere 
shred,  hardly  more  than  a  skin  that  persists  In 
living  without  eating,  stoutly  defends  her  egg- 
sack,  shows  fight  at  the  approach  of  any 
tramp.  She  does  not  make  up  her  mind  to 
die  until  the  little  ones  are  gone. 

The  Labyrinth  Spider  Is  better  treated. 
After  laying  her  eggs,  so  far  from  becoming 
thin,  she  preserves  an  excellent  appearance 
and  a  round  belly.  Moreover,  she  does  not 
lose  her  appetite  and  Is  always  prepared  to 
bleed  a  Locust.  She  therefore  requires  a 
dwelling  with  a  hunting-box  close  to  the  eggs 
350 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

watched  over.  We  know  this  dwelling,  built 
in  strict  accordance  with  artistic  cannons  un- 
der the  shelter  of  my  cages. 

Remember  the  magnificent  oval  guard- 
room, running  into  a  vestibule  at  either  end; 
the  egg-chamber  slung  in  the  centre  and 
isolated  on  every  side  by  half  a  score  of 
pillars;  the  front-hall  expanding  into  a  wide 
mouth  and  surmounted  by  a  network  of  taut 
threads  forming  a  trap.  The  semi-transpar- 
ency of  the  walls  allows  us  to  see  the  Spider 
engaged  In  her  household  affairs.  Her 
cloister  of  vaulted  passages  enables  her  to  pro- 
ceed to  any  point  of  the  star-shaped  pouch 
containing  the  eggs.  Indefatigable  in  her 
rounds,  she  stops  here  and  there;  she  fondly 
feels  the  satin,  listens  to  the  secrets  of  the  wal- 
let. If  I  shake  the  net  at  any  point  with  a 
straw,  she  quickly  runs  up  to  enquire  what  is 
happening.  Will  this  vigilance  frighten  off 
the  Ichneumon  and  other  lovers  of  omelettes? 
Perhaps  so.  But,  though  this  danger  be 
averted,  others  will  come  when  the  mother  is 
no  longer  there. 

Her  attentive  watch  does  not  make  her 
overlook  her  meals.  One  of  the  Locusts 
whereof  I  renew  the  supply  at  Intervals  in  the 
351 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

cages  is  caught  in  the  cords  of  the  great 
entrance-hall.  The  Spider  arrives  hurriedly, 
snatches  the  giddy-pate  and  disjoints  his 
shanks,  which  she  empties  of  their  contents,  the 
best  part  of  the  insect.  The  remainder  of  the 
carcass  is  afterwards  drained  more  or  less,  ac- 
cording to  her  appetite  at  the  time.  The  meal 
is  taken  outside  the  guard-room,  on  the 
threshold,  never  indoors. 

These  are  not  capricious  mouthfuls,  serv- 
ing to  beguile  the  boredom  of  the  watch  for 
a  brief  while;  they  are  substantial  repasts, 
which  require  several  sittings.  Such  an  ap- 
petite astonishes  me,  after  I  have  seen  the 
Crab  Spider,  that  no  less  ardent  watcher, 
refuse  the  Bees  whom  I  give  her  and  allow 
herself  to  die  of  inanition.  Can  this  other 
mother  have  so  great  a  need  as  that  to  eat? 
Yes,  certainly  she  has;  and  for  an  imperative 
reason. 

At  the  beginning  of  her  work,  she  spent  a 
large  amount  of  silk,  perhaps  all  that  her 
reserves  contained ;  for  the  double  dwelling — 
for  herself  and  for  her  offspring — is  a  huge 
edifice,  exceedingly  costly  in  materials;  and 
yet,  for  nearly  another  month,  I  see  her 
adding  layer  upon  layer  both  to  the  wall  of 
352 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

the  large  cabin  and  to  that  of  the  central 
chamber,  so  much  so  that  the  texture,  which 
at  first  was  translucent  gauze,  becomes  opaque 
satin.  The  walls  never  seem  thick  enough; 
the  Spider  is  always  working  at  them.  To 
satisfy  this  lavish  expenditure,  she  must  inces- 
santly, by  means  of  feeding,  fill  her  silk-glands 
as  and  when  she  empties  them  by  spinning. 
Food  is  the  means  whereby  she  keeps  the  inex- 
haustible factory  going. 

A  month  passes;  and,  about  the  middle  of 
September,  the  little  ones  hatch,  but  without 
leaving  their  tabernacle,  where  they  are  to 
spend  the  winter  packed  In  soft  wadding. 
The  mother  continues  to  watch  and  spin, 
lessening  her  activity  from  day  to  day.  She 
recruits  herself  with  a  Locust  at  longer  inter- 
vals; she  sometimes  scorns  those  whom  I  my- 
self entangle  in  her  trap.  This  increasing 
abstemiousness,  a  sign  of  decrepitude,  slackens 
and  at  last  stops  the  work  of  the  spinnerets. 

For  four  or  five  weeks  longer,  the  mother 
never  ceases  her  leisurely  inspection-rounds, 
happy  at  hearing  the  new-born  Spiders  swarm- 
ing In  the  wallet.  At  length,  when  October 
ends,  she  clutches  her  offspring's  nursery  and 
dies  withered.  She  has  done  all  that  maternal 
353 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

devotion  can  do;  the  special  providence  of 
tiny  animals  will  do  the  rest.  When  spring 
comes,  the  youngsters  will  emerge  from  their 
snug  habitation,  disperse  all  over  the  neigh- 
hood  by  the  expedient  of  the  floating  thread 
and  weave  their  first  attempts  at  a  labyrinth 
on  the  tufts  of  thyme. 

Accurate  in  structure  and  neat  in  silk-work 
though  they  be,  the  nests  of  the  caged  captives 
do  not  tell  us  everything;  we  must  go  back  to 
what  happens  in  the  fields,  with  their  com- 
plicated conditions.  Towards  the  end  of 
December,  I  again  set  out  in  search,  aided  by 
all  my  youthful  collaborators.  We  inspect  the 
stunted  rosemaries  along  the  edge  of  a  path 
sheltered  by  a  rocky,  wooded  slope ;  we  lift  the 
branches  that  spread  over  the  ground.  Our 
zeal  is  rewarded  with  success.  In  a  couple  of 
hours,  I  am  the  owner  of  some  nests. 

Pitiful  pieces  of  work  are  they,  injured 
beyond  recognition  by  the  assaults  of  the 
weather!  It  needs  the  eyes  of  faith  to  see  in 
these  ruins  the  equivalent  of  the  edifices  built 
inside  my  cages.  Fastened  to  the  creeping 
branch,  the  unsightly  bundle  lies  on  the  sand 
heaped  up  by  the  rains.  Oak-leaves,  roughly 
joined  by  a  few  threads,  wrap  it  all  round. 
354 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

One  of  these  leaves,  larger  than  the  others, 
roofs  it  In  and  serves  as  a  scaffolding  for  the 
whole  of  the  ceiling.  If  we  did  not  see  the 
silky  remnants  of  the  two  vestibules  project- 
ing and  feel  a  certain  resistance  when  separat- 
ing the  parts  of  the  bundle,  we  might  take  the 
thing  for  a  casual  accumulation,  the  work  of 
the  rain  and  the  wind. 

Let  us  examine  our  find  and  look  more 
closely  into  its  shapelessness.  Here  is  the 
large  room,  the  maternal  cabin,  which  rips  as 
the  coating  of  leaves  is  removed;  here  are  the 
circular  galleries  of  the  guard-room;  here  are 
the  central  chamber  and  its  pillars,  all  in  a 
fabric  of  Immaculate  white.  The  dirt  from 
the  damp  ground  has  not  penetrated  to  this 
dwelling  protected  by  its  wrapper  of  dead 
leaves. 

Now  open  the  habitation  of  the  offspring. 
What  is  this  ?  To  my  utter  astonishment,  the 
contents  of  the  chamber  are  a  kernel  of  earthy 
matters,  as  though  the  muddy  rain-water  had 
been  allowed  to  soak  through.  Put  aside  that 
idea,  says  the  satin  wall,  which  itself  is  per- 
fectly clean  inside.  It  is  most  certainly  the 
mother's  doing,  a  deliberate  piece  of  work, 
executed  with  minute  care.  The  grains  of 
355 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

sand  are  stuck  together  with  a  cement  of  silk; 
and  the  whole  resists  the  pressure  of  the 
fingers. 

If  we  continue  to  unshell  the  kernel,  we 
find,  below  this  mineral  layer,  a  last  silken 
tunic  that  forms  a  globe  around  the  brood. 
No  sooner  do  we  tear  this  final  covering  than 
the  frightened  little  ones  run  away  and  scatter 
with  an  agility  that  is  singular  at  this  cold  and 
torpid  season. 

To  sum  up,  when  working  in  the  natural 
state,  the  Labyrinth  Spider  builds  around  the 
eggs,  between  two  sheets  of  satin,  a  wall  com- 
posed of  a  great  deal  of  sand  and  a  little  silk. 
To  stop  the  Ichneumon's  probe  and  the  teeth 
of  the  other  ravages,  the  best  thing  that  oc- 
curred to  her  was  this  hoarding  which 
combines  the  hardness  of  flint  with  the 
softness  of  muslin. 

This  means  of  defence  seems  to  be  pretty 
frequent  among  Spiders.  Our  own  big  House 
Spider,  Tegenaria  domestica,  encloses  her 
eggs  in  a  globule  strengthened  with  a  rind 
of  silk  and  of  crumbly  wreckage  from  the 
mortar  of  the  walls.  Other  species,  living  in 
the  open  under  stones,  work  In  the  same  way. 
They  wrap  their  eggs  in  a  mineral  shell  held 
356 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

together  with  silk.     The  same  fears  have  in- 
spired the  same  protective  methods. 

Then  how  comes  it  that,  of  the  five 
mothers  reared  in  my  cages,  not  one  has  had 
recourse  to  the  clay  rampart  ?  After  all,  sand 
abounded:  the  pans  in  which  the  wire-gauze 
covers  stood  were  full  of  it.  On  the  other 
hand,  under  normal  conditions,  I  have  often 
come  across  nests  without  any  mineral  casing. 
These  incomplete  nests  were  placed  at  some 
height  from  the  ground,  in  the  thick  of  the 
brushwood;  the  others,  on  the  contrary,  those 
supplied  with  a  coating  of  sand,  lay  on  the 
ground. 

The  method  of  the  work  explains  these 
differences.  The  concrete  of  our  buildings  is 
obtained  by  the  simultaneous  manipulation  of 
gravel  and  mortar.  In  the  same  way,  the 
Spider  mixes  the  cement  of  the  silk  with  the 
grains  of  sand;  the  spinnerets  never  cease 
working,  while  the  legs  fling  under  the  ad- 
hesive spray  the  solid  materials  collected  in 
the  immediate  neighbourhood.  The  opera- 
tion would  be  impossible  if,  after  cementing 
each  grain  of  sand,  it  were  necessary  to  stop 
the  work  of  the  spinnerets  and  go  to  a  distance 
to    fetch    further    stony    elements.      Those 

357 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

materials  have  to  be  right  under  her  legs; 
otherwise  the  Spider  does  without  and  con- 
tinues her  work  just  the  same. 

In  my  cages,  the  sand  is  too  far  off.  To 
obtain  it,  the  Spider  would  have  to  leave  the 
top  of  the  dome,  where  the  nest  is  being  built 
on  its  trellis-work  support;  she  would  have  to 
come  down  some  nine  inches.  The  worker 
refuses  to  take  this  trouble,  which,  if  repeated 
in  the  case  of  each  grain,  would  make  the 
action  of  the  spinnerets  too  irksome.  She  also 
refuses  to  do  so  when,  for  reasons  which  1 
have  not  fathomed,  the  site  chosen  is  some 
way  up  in  the  tuft  of  rosemary.  But,  when 
the  nest  touches  the  ground,  the  clay  rampart 
is  never  missing. 

Are  we  to  see  in  this  fact  proof  of  an  in- 
stinct capable  of  modification,  either  making 
for  decadence  and  gradually  neglecting  what 
was  the  ancestors'  safeguard,  or  making  for 
progress  and  advancing,  hesitatingly,  towards 
perfection  in  the  mason's  art?  No  inference 
is  permissible  in  either  direction.  The  Laby- 
rinth Spider  has  simply  taught  us  that  instinct 
possesses  resources  which  are  employed  or  left 
latent  according  to  the  conditions  of  the  mo- 
ment. Place  sand  under  her  legs  and  the 
358 


The  Labyrinth  Spider 

spinstress  will  knead  concrete;  refuse  her  that 
sand,  or  put  it  out  of  her  reach,  and  the 
Spider  will  remain  a  simple  silk-worker,  al- 
ways ready,  however,  to  turn  mason  under 
favourable  conditions.  The  aggregate  of 
things  that  come  within  the  observer's  scope 
proves  that  it  were  mad  to  expect  from  her 
any  further  innovations,  such  as  would  utterly 
change  her  methods  of  manufacture  and  cause 
her,  for  instance,  to  abandon  her  cabin,  with 
Its  two  entrance-halls  and  its  star-like  taber- 
nacle, in  favour  of  the  Banded  Epeira's 
pear-shaped  gourd. 


359 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    CLOTHO    SPIDER 

CHE  is  named  Durand's  Clotho  (Clotho 
*^  Diirandi,  Latr.),  in  memory  of  him 
who  first  called  attention  to  this  particular 
Spider.  To  enter  on  eternity  under  the  safe- 
conduct  of  a  diminutive  animal  which  saves 
us  from  speedy  oblivion  under  the  mallows  and 
rockets  is  no  contemptible  advantage.  Most 
men  disappear  without  leaving  an  echo  to 
repeat  their  name;  they  lie  buried  in  forget- 
fulness,  the  worst  of  graves. 

Others,  among  the  naturalists,  benefit  by 
the  designation  given  to  this  or  that  object  in 
life's  treasure-house :  it  is  the  skiff  wherein 
they  keep  afloat  for  a  brief  while.  A  patch  of 
lichen  on  the  bark  of  an  old  tree,  a  blade  of 
grass,  a  puny  beastie :  any  one  of  these  hands 
down  a  man's  name  to  posterity  as  effectively 
as  a  new  comet.  For  all  its  abuses,  this 
manner  of  honouring  the  departed  is  emi- 
nently respectable.  If  we  would  carve  an 
epitaph  of  some  duration,  what  could  we  find 
360 


The  Clotho  Spider 

better  than  a  Beetle's  wing-case,  a  Snail's  shell 
or  a  Spider's  web?  Granite  is  worth  none  of 
them.  Entrusted  to  the  hard  stone,  an  inscrip- 
tion becomes  obliterated;  entrusted  to  a 
Butterfly's  wing,  it  Is  indestructible.  *Du- 
rand,'  therefore,  by  all  means. 

But  why  drag  in  'Clotho'  ?  Is  it  the  whim 
of  a  nomenclator,  at  a  loss  for  words  to 
denote  the  ever-swelling  tide  of  beasts  that 
require  cataloguing?  Not  entirely.  A 
mythological  name  came  to  his  mind,  one 
which  sounded  well  and  which,  moreover,  was 
not  out  of  place  in  designating  a  spinstress. 
The  Clotho  of  antiquity  is  the  youngest  of  the 
three  Fates;  she  holds  the  distaff  whence  our 
destinies  are  spun,  a  distaff  wound  with  plenty 
of  rough  flocks,  just  a  few  shreds  of  silk  and, 
very  rarely,  a  thin  strand  of  gold. 

Prettily  shaped  and  clad,  as  far  as  a  Spider 
can  be,  the  Clotho  of  the  naturalists  is,  above 
all,  a  highly  talented  spinstress;  and  this  is  the 
reason  why  she  is  called  after  the  distaff- 
bearing  deity  of  the  infernal  regions.  It  is  a 
pity  that  the  analogy  extends  no  further. 
The  mythological  Clotho,  niggardly  with  her 
silk  and  lavish  with  her  coarse  flocks,  spins  us 
a  harsh  existence;  the  eight-legged  Clotho 
361 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

uses  naught  but  exquisite  silk.  She  works  for 
herself;  the  other  works  for  us,  who  are 
hardly  worth  the  trouble. 

Would  we  make  her  acquaintance?  On  the 
rocky  slopes  in  the  oliveland,  scorched  and 
blistered  by  the  sun,  turn  over  the  flat  stones, 
those  of  a  fair  size;  search,  above  all,  the  piles 
which  the  shepherds  set  up  for  a  seat  whence 
to  watch  the  sheep  browsing  amongst  the 
lavender  below.  Do  not  be  too  easily  dis- 
heartened: the  Clotho  is  rare;  not  every  spot 
suits  her.  If  fortune  smile  at  last  upon  our 
perseverance,  we  shall  see,  clinging  to  the 
lower  surface  of  the  stone  which  we  have 
lifted,  an  edifice  of  a  weatherbeaten  aspect, 
shaped  like  an  overturned  cupola  and  about 
the  size  of  half  a  tangerine  orange.  The  out- 
side is  encrusted  or  hung  with  small  shells, 
particles  of  earth  and,  especially,  dried  Insects. 

The  edge  of  the  cupola  is  scalloped  into  a 
dozen  angular  lobes,  the  points  of  which 
spread  and  are  fixed  to  the  stone.  In  between 
these  straps  is  the  same  number  of  spacious 
inverted  arches.  The  whole  represents  the 
Ishmaelite's  camel-hair  tent,  but  upside  down. 
A  flat  roof,  stretched  between  the  straps, 
closes  the  top  of  the  dwelling. 
362 


The  Clotho  Spider 

Then  where  is  the  entrance?  All  the 
arches  of  the  edge  open  upon  the  roof;  not 
one  leads  to  the  interior.  The  eye  seeks  in 
vain;  there  is  naught  to  point  to  a  passage 
between  the  inside  and  the  outside.  Yet  the 
owner  of  the  house  must  go  out  from  time  to 
time,  were  it  only  in  search  of  food;  on  return- 
ing from  her  expedition,  she  must  go  in  again. 
How  does  she  make  her  exits  and  her  en- 
trances?   A  straw  will  tell  us  the  secret. 

Pass  it  over  the  threshold  of  the  various 
arches.  Everywhere,  the  searching  straw  en- 
counters resistance;  everywhere,  it  finds  the 
place  rigorously  closed.  But  one  of  the 
scallops,  differing  in  no  wise  from  the  others 
in  appearance,  if  cleverly  coaxed,  opens  at  the 
edge  into  two  lips  and  stands  slightly  ajar. 
This  is  the  door,  which  at  once  shuts  again  of 
its  own  elasticity.  Nor  is  this  all :  the  Spider, 
when  she  returns  home,  often  bolts  herself  in, 
that  is  to  say,  she  joins  and  fastens  the  two 
leaves  of  the  door  with  a  little  silk. 

The  Mason  Mygale  is  no  safer  in  her 
burrow,  with  its  lid  undistinguishable  from  the 
soil  and  moving  on  a  hinge,  than  is  the  Clotho 
in  her  tent,  which  is  inviolable  by  any 
enemy  ignorant  of  the  device.  The  Clotho, 
363 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

when  in  danger,  runs  quickly  home ;  she  opens 
the  chink  with  a  touch  of  her  claw,  enters  and 
disappears.  The  door  closes  of  itself  and  is 
supplied,  in  case  of  need,  with  a  lock  consist- 
ing of  a  few  threads.  No  burglar,  led  astray 
by  the  multiplicity  of  arches,  one  and  all  alike, 
will  ever  discover  how  the  fugitive  vanished 
so  suddenly. 

While  the  Clotho  displays  a  more  simple 
ingenuity  as  regards  her  defensive  machinery, 
she  is  incomparably  ahead  of  the  Mygale  in 
the  matter  of  domestic  comfort.  Let  us  open 
her  cabin.  What  luxury  I  We  are  taught 
how  a  Sybarite  of  old  was  unable  to  rest, 
owing  to  the  presence  of  a  crumpled  rose-leaf 
in  his  bed.  The  Clotho  is  quite  as  fastidious. 
Her  couch  is  more  delicate  than  swan's-down 
and  whiter  than  the  fleece  of  the  clouds  where 
brood  the  summer  storms.  It  Is  the  Ideal 
blanket.  Above  Is  a  canopy  or  tester  of  equal 
softness.  Between  the  two  nestles  the  Spider, 
short-legged,  clad  in  sombre  garments,  with 
five  yellow  favours  on  her  back. 

Rest    in    this    exquisite    retreat    demands 

perfect    stability,    especially   on    gusty    days, 

when  sharp  draughts  penetrate  beneath  the 

stone.     This  condition  is  admirably  fulfilled. 

364 


The  Clotho  Spider 

Take  a  careful  look  at  the  habitation.  The 
arches  that  gird  the  roof  with  a  balustrade 
and  bear  the  weight  of  the  edifice  are  fixed  to 
the  slab  by  their  extremities.  Moreover, 
from  each  point  of  contact,  there  issues  a 
cluster  of  diverging  threads  that  creep  along 
the  stone  and  cling  to  it  throughout  their 
length,  which  spreads  afar.  I  have  measured 
some  that  were  fully  nine  inches  long.  These 
are  so  many  cables;  they  represent  the  ropes 
and  pegs  that  hold  the  Arab's  tent  in  position. 
With  such  supports  as  these,  so  numerous 
and  so  methodically  arranged,  the  hammock 
cannot  be  torn  from  its  bearings  save  by  the 
intervention  of  brutal  methods  with  which  the 
Spider  need  not  concern  herself,  so  seldom  do 
they  occur. 

Another  detail  attracts  our  attention: 
whereas  the  interior  of  the  house  is  exquisitely 
clean,  the  outside  is  covered  with  dirt,  bits  of 
earth,  chips  of  rotten  wood,  little  pieces  of 
gravel.  Often  there  are  worse  things  still: 
the  exterior  of  the  tent  becomes  a  charnel- 
house.  Here,  hung  up  or  embedded,  are  the 
dry  carcasses  of  Opatra,  Asidae  and  other 
Tenebrionidse^  that  favour  underrock  shelters; 

*  One  of  the  largest  families  of  Beetles,  darkish  in 
colour  and  shunning  the  light. — Translator's  Note. 

365 


The  Life  of  the  Spidei 

segments  of  luli,^  bleached  by  the  sun;  shells 
of  Pup^,^  common  among  the  stones;  and, 
lastly,  Snail-shells,  selected  from  among  the 
smallest. 

These  relics  are  obviously,  for  the  most 
part,  table-leavings,  broken  victuals.  Un- 
versed in  the  trapper's  art,  the  Clotho  courses 
her  game  and  lives  upon  the  vagrants  who 
wander  from  one  stone  to  another.  Whoso 
ventures  under  the  slab  at  night  is  strangled 
by  the  hostess;  and  the  dried-up  carcass, 
instead  of  being  flung  to  a  distance,  is  hung  to 
the  silken  wall,  as  though  the  Spider  wished 
to  make  a  bogey-house  of  her  home.  But  this 
cannot  be  her  aim.  To  act  like  the  ogre  who 
hangs  his  victims  from  the  castle  battlements 
is  the  worst  way  to  disarm  suspicion  in  the 
passers-by  whom  you  are  lying  in  wait  to 
capture. 

There  are  other  reasons  which  increase  our 
doubts.  The  shells  hung  up  are  most  often 
empty;  but  there  are  also  some  occupied  by 
the  Snail,  alive  and  untouched.  What  can  the 
Clotho  do  with  a  Pupa  cinerea,  a  Pupa  quad- 

'  The  lulus  is  one  of  the  family  of  Myriapods,  which 
includes  Centipedes,  etc. — Translator's  Note. 

'  A  species  of  Land-snail. — Translator's  Note. 

366 


The  Clotho  Spider 

ridens  and  other  narrow  spirals  wherein  the 
animal  retreats  to  an  inaccessible  depth  ?  The 
Spider  is  incapable  of  breaking  the  calcareous 
shell  or  of  getting  at  the  hermit  through  the 
opening.  Then  why  should  she  collect  those 
prizes,  whose  slimy  flesh  is  probably  not  to  her 
taste  ?  We  begin  to  suspect  a  simple  question 
of  ballast  and  balance.  The  House  Spider 
prevents  her  web,  spun  In  a  corner  of  the  wall, 
from  losing  its  shape  at  the  least  breath  of 
air,  by  loading  It  with  crumbling  plaster  and 
allowing  tiny  fragments  of  mortar  to  accumu- 
late. Are  we  face  to  face  with  a  similar 
process?  Let  us  try  experiment,  which  is 
preferable  to  any  amount  of  conjecture. 

To  rear  the  Clotho  is  not  an  arduous  under- 
taking; we  are  not  obliged  to  take  the  heavy 
flagstone,  on  which  the  dwelling  is  built,  away 
with  us.  A  very  simple  operation  suffices.  I 
loosen  the  fastenings  with  my  pocket-knife. 
The  Spider  has  such  stay-at-home  ways  that 
she  very  rarely  makes  off.  Besides,  I  use  the 
utmost  discretion  in  my  rape  of  the  house. 
And  so  I  carry  away  the  building,  together 
with  its  owner.  In  a  paper  bag. 

The  flat  stones,  which  are  too  heavy  to 
move  and  which  would  occupy  too  much  room 
367 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

upon  my  table,  are  replaced  either  by  deal 
disks,  which  once  formed  part  of  cheese- 
boxes,  or  by  round  pieces  of  cardboard.  I  ar- 
range each  silken  hammock  under  one  of  these 
by  itself,  fastening  the  angular  projections, 
one  by  one,  with  strips  of  gummed  paper.  The 
whole  stands  on  three  short  pillars  and  gives 
a  very  fair  imitation  of  the  underrock  shelter 
in  the  form  of  a  small  dolmen.  Throughout 
this  operation,  if  you  are  careful  to  avoid 
shocks  and  jolts,  the  Spider  remains  indoors. 
Finally,  each  apparatus  is  placed  under  a  wire- 
gauze,  bell-shaped  cage,  which  stands  in  a  dish 
filled  with  sand. 

We  can  have  an  answer  by  the  next  morn- 
ing. If,  among  the  cabins  swung  from  the 
ceilings  of  the  deal  or  cardboard  dolmens, 
there  be  one  that  is  all  dilapidated,  that  was 
seriously  knocked  out  of  shape  at  the  time  of 
removal,  the  Spider  abandons  it  during  the 
night  and  instals  herself  elsewhere,  sometimes 
even  on  the  trellis-work  of  the  wire  cage. 

The  new  tent,  the  work  of  a  few  hours, 
attains  hardly  the  diameter  of  a  two-franc 
piece.  It  is  built,  however,  on  the  same  prin- 
ciples as  the  old  manor-house  and  consists 
of  two  thin  sheets  laid  one  above  the  other, 
368 


The  Clotho  Spider 

the  upper  one  flat  and  forming  a  tester,  the 
lower  curved  and  pocket-shaped.  The  texture 
is  extremely  delicate :  the  least  trifle  would 
deform  it,  to  the  detriment  of  the  available 
space,  which  is  already  much  reduced  and  only 
just  suflicient  for  the  recluse. 

Well,  what  has  the  Spider  done  to  keep  the 
gossamer  stretched,  to  steady  it  and  to  make 
it  retain  its  greatest  capacity?  Exactly  what 
our  static  treatises  would  advise  her  to  do: 
she  has  ballasted  her  structure,  she  has  done 
her  best  to  lov/er  its  centre  of  gravity.  From 
the  convex  surface  of  the  pocket  hang  long 
chaplets  of  grains  of  sand  strung  together 
with  slender  silken  cords.  To  these  sandy 
stalactites,  which  form  a  bushy  beard,  are 
added  a  few  heavy  lumps  hung  separately  and 
lower  down,  at  the  end  of  a  thread.  The 
whole  Is  a  piece  of  ballast-work,  an  apparatus 
for  ensuring  equilibrium  and  tension. 

The  present  edifice,  hastily  constructed  In 
the  space  of  a  night,  is  the  frail  rough  sketch 
of  what  the  home  will  afterwards  become. 
Successive  layers  will  be  added  to  It;  and  the 
partition-wall  will  grow  Into  a  thick  blanket 
capable  of  partly  retaining,  by  Its  own  weight, 
the  requisite  curve  and  capacity.  The  Spider 
369 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

now  abandons  the  stalactites  of  sand,  which 
were  used  to  keep  the  original  pocket 
stretched,  and  confines  herself  to  dumping 
down  on  her  abode  any  more  or  less  heavy 
object,  mainly  corpses  of  insects,  because  she 
need  not  look  for  these  and  finds  them  ready 
to  hand  after  each  meal.  They  are  weights, 
not  trophies;  they  take  the  place  of  materials 
that  must  otherwise  be  collected  from  a  dis- 
tance and  hoisted  to  the  top.  In  this  way,  a 
breastwork  is  obtained  that  strengthens  and 
steadies  the  house.  Additional  equilibrium  is 
often  supplied  by  tiny  shells  and  other  objects 
hanging  a  long  way  down. 

What  would  happen  if  one  robbed  an  old 
dwelling,  long  since  completed,  of  its  outer 
covering?  In  case  of  such  a  disaster,  would 
the  Spider  go  back  to  the  sandy  stalactites, 
as  a  ready  means  of  restoring  stability?  This 
is  easily  ascertained.  In  my  hamlets  under 
wire,  I  select  a  fair-sized  cabin.  I  strip  the 
exterior,  carefully  removing  any  foreign  body. 
The  silk  reappears  in  its  original  whiteness. 
The  tent  looks  magnificent,  but  seems  to  me 
too  limp. 

This  is  also  the  Spider's  opinion.  She  sets 
to  work,  next  evening,  to  put  things  right. 
370 


The  Clotho  Spider 

And  how?  Once  more  with  hanging  strings 
of  sand.  In  a  few  nights,  the  silk  bag  bristles 
with  a  long,  thick  beard  of  stalactites,  a 
curious  piece  of  work,  excellently  adapted  to 
maintain  the  web  in  an  unvaried  curve.  Even 
so  are  the  cables  of  a  suspension-bridge 
steadied  by  the  weight  of  the  superstructure. 

Later,  as  the  Spider  goes  on  feeding,  the 
remains  of  the  victuals  are  embedded  in  the 
wall,  the  sand  Is  shaken  and  gradually  drops 
away  and  the  home  resumes  Its  charnel-house 
appearance.  This  brings  us  to  the  same  con- 
clusion as  before:  the  Clotho  knows  her 
statics;  by  means  of  additional  weights,  she  Is 
able  to  lower  the  centre  of  gravity  and  thus  to 
give  her  dwelling  the  proper  equilibrium  and 
capacity. 

Now  what  does  she  do  In  her  softly-wadded 
home?  Nothing,  that  I  know  of.  With  a 
full  stomach,  her  legs  luxuriously  stretched 
over  the  downy  carpet,  she  does  nothing, 
thinks  of  nothing;  she  listens  to  the  sound  of 
earth  revolving  on  Its  axis.  It  is  not  sleep, 
still  less  is  It  waking;  It  Is  a  middle  state  where 
naught  prevails  save  a  dreamy  consciousness 
of  well-being.  We  ourselves,  when  comfort- 
ably In  bed,  enjoy,  just  before  we  fall  asleep, 
371 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

a  few  moments  of  bliss,  the  prelude  to  cessa- 
tion of  thought  and  its  train  of  worries;  and 
those  moments  are  among  the  sweetest  in  our 
lives.  The  Clotho  seems  to  know  similar 
moments  and  to  make  the  most  of  them. 

If  I  push  open  the  door  of  the  cabin,  in- 
variably I  find  the  Spider  lying  motionless,  as 
though  in  endless  meditation.  It  needs  the 
teasing  of  a  straw  to  rouse  her  from  her 
apathy.  It  needs  the  prick  of  hunger  to  bring 
her  out  of  doors;  and,  as  she  is  extremely 
temperate,  her  appearances  outside  are  few 
and  far  between.  During  three  years  of 
assiduous  observation,  in  the  privacy  of  my 
study,  I  have  not  once  seen  her  explore  the 
domain  of  the  wire  cage  by  day.  Not  until 
a  late  hour  at  night  does  she  venture  forth  in 
quest  of  victuals;  and  it  is  hardly  feasible  to 
follow  her  on  her  excursions. 

Patience  once  enabled  me  to  find  her,  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  taking  the  air  on  the 
flat  roof  of  her  house,  where  she  was  doubt- 
less waiting  for  the  game  to  pass.  Startled 
by  the  light  of  my  candle,  the  lover  of  dark- 
ness at  once  returned  indoors,  refusing  to 
reveal  any  of  her  secrets.  Only,  next  day, 
there  was  one  more  corpse  hanging  from  the 
372 


The  Clotho  Spider 

wall  of  the  cabin,  a  proof  that  the  chase 
was  successfully  resumed  after  my  depar- 
ture. 

The  Clotho,  who  is  not  only  nocturnal,  but 
also  excessively  shy,  conceals  her  habits  from 
us;  she  shows  us  her  works,  those  precious 
historical  documents,  but  hides  her  actions, 
especially  the  laying,  which  I  estimate  ap- 
proximately to  take  place  in  October.  The 
sum  total  of  the  eggs  is  divided  into  five  or 
six  small,  flat,  lentiform  pockets,  which,  taken 
together,  occupy  the  greater  part  of  the 
maternal  home.  These  capsules  have  each 
their  own  partition-wall  of  superb  white  satin, 
but  they  are  so  closely  soldered,  both  to- 
gether and  to  the  floor  of  the  house,  that  it  is 
impossible  to  part  them  without  tearing  them, 
impossible,  therefore,  to  obtain  them  sep- 
arately. The  eggs  in  all  amount  to  about  a 
hundred. 

The  mother  sits  upon  the  heap  of  pockets 
with  the  same  devotion  as  a  brooding  hen. 
Maternity  has  not  withered  her.  Although 
decreased  in  bulk,  she  retains  an  excellent  look 
of  health;  her  round  belly  and  her  well- 
stretched  skin  tell  us  from  the  first  that  her 
part  is  not  yet  wholly  played. 
Z7Z 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

The  hatching  takes  place  early.  November 
has  not  arrived  before  the  pockets  contain 
the  young :  wee  things  clad  in  black,  with  five 
yellow  specks,  exactly  like  their  elders.  The 
new-born  do  not  leave  their  respective  nur- 
series. Packed  close  together,  they  spend  the 
whole  of  the  wintry  season  there,  while  the 
mother,  squatting  on  the  pile  of  cells,  watches 
over  the  general  safety,  without  knowing  her 
family  other  than  by  the  gentle  trepidations 
felt  through  the  partitions  of  the  tiny  cham- 
bers. The  Labyrinth  Spider  has  shown  us 
how  she  maintains  a  permanent  sitting  for 
two  months  in  her  guard-room,  to  defend,  in 
case  of  need,  the  brood  which  she  will  never 
see.  The  Clotho  does  the  same  during  eight 
months,  thus  earning  the  right  to  set  eyes  for 
a  little  while  on  her  family  trotting  around 
her  in  the  main  cabin  and  to  assist  at  the  final 
exodus,  the  great  journey  undertaken  at  the 
end  of  a  thread. 

When  the  summer  heat  arrives,  in  June,  the 
young  ones,  probably  aided  by  their  mother, 
pierce  the  walls  of  their  cells,  leave  the 
maternal  tent,  of  which  they  know  the  secret 
outlet  well,  take  the  air  on  the  threshold  for 
a  few  hours  and  then  fly  away,  carried  to  some 
374 


The  Clotho  Spider 

distance  by  a  funicular  aeroplane,  the  first 
product  of  their  spinning-mill. 

The  elder  Clotho  remains  behind,  careless 
of  this  emigration  which  leaves  her  alone. 
She  Is  far  from  being  faded;  indeed,  she  looks 
younger  than  ever.  Her  fresh  colour,  her 
robust  appearance  suggest  great  length  of  life, 
capable  of  producing  a  second  family.  On 
this  subject  I  have  but  one  document,  a  pretty 
far-reaching  one,  however.  There  were  a 
few  mothers  whose  actions  I  had  the  patience 
to  watch,  despite  the  wearisome  minutise  of 
the  rearing  and  the  slowness  of  the  result. 
These  abandoned  their  dwellings  after  the 
departure  of  their  young;  and  each  went  to 
weave  a  new  one  for  herself  on  the  wire  net- 
work of  the  cage. 

They  were  rough-and-ready  summaries,  the 
work  of  a  night.  Two  hangings,  one  above 
the  other,  the  upper  one  flat,  the  lower  con- 
cave and  ballasted  with  stalactites  of  grains 
of  sand,  formed  the  new  home,  which, 
strengthened  daily  by  fresh  layers,  promised 
to  become  similar  to  the  old  one.  Why  does 
the  Spider  desert  her  former  mansion,  which 
is  In  no  way  dilapidated — far  from  it — and 
still  exceedingly  serviceable,  as  far  as  one  can 

375 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

judge  ?  Unless  I  am  mistaken,  I  think  I  have 
an  inkling  of  the  reason. 

The  old  cabin,  comfortably  wadded  though 
it  be,  possesses  serious  disadvantages:  it  is 
littered  with  the  ruins  of  the  children's 
nurseries.  These  ruins  are  so  close-welded  to 
the  rest  of  the  home  that  my  forceps  cannot 
extract  them  without  difficulty;  and  to  remove 
them  would  be  an  exhausting  business  for  the 
Clotho  and  possibly  beyond  her  strength.  It 
is  a  case  of  the  resistance  of  Gordian  knots, 
which  not  even  the  very  spinstress  who 
fastened  them  is  capable  of  untying.  The 
encumbering  litter,  therefore,  will  remain. 

If  the  Spider  were  to  stay  alone,  the  re- 
duction of  space,  when  all  is  said,  would 
hardly  matter  to  her:  she  wants  so  little 
room,  merely  enough  to  move  in !  Besides, 
when  you  have  spent  seven  or  eight  months  in 
the  cramping  presence  of  those  bed-chambers, 
what  can  be  the  reason  of  a  sudden  need  for 
greater  space  ?  I  see  but  one :  the  Spider  re- 
quires a  roomy  habitation,  not  for  herself — 
she  is  satisfied  with  the  smallest  den — but  for 
a  second  family.  Where  is  she  to  place  the 
pockets  of  eggs,  if  the  ruins  of  the  previous 
laying  remain  in  the  way?  A  new  brood 
376 


The  Clotho  Spider 

requires  a  new  home.  That,  no  doubt,  is  why, 
feeling  that  her  ovaries  are  not  yet  dried  up, 
the  Spider  shifts  her  quarters  and  founds  a 
new  establishment. 

The  facts  observed  are  confined  to  this 
change  of  dwelling.  I  regret  that  other  in- 
terests and  the  difficulties  attendant  upon  a 
long  upbringing  did  not  allow  me  to  pursue 
the  question  and  definitely  to  settle  the  matter 
of  the  repeated  layings  and  the  longevity  of 
the  Clotho,  as  I  did  in  that  of  the  Lycosa. 

Before  taking  leave  of  this  Spider,  let  us 
glance  at  a  curious  problem  which  has  already 
been  set  by  the  Lycosa's  offspring.  When 
carried  for  seven  months  on  the  mother's  back, 
they  keep  in  training  as  agile  gymnasts  with- 
out taking  any  nourishment.  It  Is  familiar 
exercise  for  them,  after  a  fall,  which  fre- 
quently occurs,  to  scramble  up  a  leg  of  their 
mount  and  nimbly  to  resume  their  place  in  the 
saddle.  They  expend  energy  without  receiv- 
ing any  material  sustenance. 

The  sons  of  the  Clotho,  the  Labyrinth 
Spider  and  many  others  confront  us  with  the 
same  riddle:  they  move,  yet  do  not  eat.  At 
any  period  of  the  nursery  stage,  even  in  the 
heart  of  winter,  on  the  bleak  days  of  January, 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

I  tear  the  pockets  of  the  one  and  the  taber- 
nacle of  the  other,  expecting  to  find  the  swarm 
of  youngsters  lying  in  a  state  of  complete 
inertia,  numbed  by  the  cold  and  by  lack  of 
food.  Well,  the  result  is  quite  different.  The 
instant  their  cells  are  broken  open,  the 
anchorites  run  out  and  flee  in  every  direction 
as  nimbly  as  at  the  best  moments  of  their 
normal  liberty.  It  is  marvellous  to  see  them 
scampering  about.  No  brood  of  Partridges^ 
stumbled  upon  by  a  Dog,  scatters  more 
promptly. 

Chicks,  while  still  no  more  than  tiny  balls 
of  yellow  fluff,  hasten  up  at  the  mother's  call 
and  scurry  towards  the  plate  of  rice.  Habit 
has  made  us  indifferent  to  the  spectacle  of 
those  pretty  little  animal  machines,  which 
work  so  nimbly  and  with  such  precision;  we 
pay  no  attention,  so  simple  does  it  all  appear 
to  us.  Science  examines  and  looks  at  things 
differently.    She  says  to  herself : 

'Nothing  is  made  with  nothing.  The  chick 
feeds  itself;  it  consumes  or  rather  it  assimi- 
lates and  turns  the  food  into  heat,  which  is 
converted  into  energy.' 

Were  any  one  to  tell  us  of  a  chick  which, 
for  seven  or  eight  months  on  end,  kept  itself 
378 


The  Clotho  Spider 

in  condition  for  running,  always  fit,  always 
brisk,  without  taking  the  least  beakful  of 
nourishment  from  the  day  when  it  left  the 
egg,  we  could  find  no  words  strong  enough  to 
express  our  incredulity.  Now  this  paradox 
of  activity  maintained  without  the  stay  of 
food  is  realized  by  the  Clotho  Spider  and 
others. 

I  believe  I  have  made  it  sufficiently  clear 
that  the  young  Lycosae  take  no  food  as  long 
as  they  remain  with  their  mother.  Strictly 
speaking,  doubt  is  just  admissible,  for  observa- 
tion is  needs  dumb  as  to  what  may  happen 
earlier  or  later  within  the  mysteries  of  the 
burrow.  It  seems  possible  that  the  repleted 
mother  may  there  disgorge  to  her  family  a 
mite  of  the  contents  of  her  crop.  To  this 
suggestion  the  Clotho  undertakes  to  make 
reply. 

Like  the  Lycosa,  she  lives  with  her  family; 
but  the  Clotho  is  separated  from  them  by 
the  walls  of  the  cells  in  which  the  little  ones 
are  hermetically  enclosed.  In  this  condition, 
the  transmission  of  solid  nourishment  be- 
comes impossible.  Should  any  one  entertain  a 
theory  of  nutritive  humours  cast  up  by  the 
mother  and  filtering  through  the  partitions  at 
379 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

which  the  prisoners  might  come  and  drink, 
the  Labyrinth  Spider  would  at  once  dispel  the 
idea.  She  dies  a  few  weeks  after  her  young 
are  hatched;  and  the  children,  still  locked  in 
their  satin  bed-chamber  for  the  best  part  of 
the  year,  are  none  the  less  active. 

Can  it  be  that  they  derive  sustenance  from 
the  silken  wrapper?  Do  they  eat  their 
house?  The  supposition  is  not  absurd,  for 
we  have  seen  the  Epeirae,  before  beginning  a 
new  w^eb,  swallow  the  ruins  of  the  old.  But 
the  explanation  cannot  be  accepted,  as  we 
learn  from  the  Lycosa,  whose  family  boasts 
no  silky  screen.  In  short,  it  is  certain  that  the 
young,  of  v/hatever  species,  take  absolutely 
no  nourishment. 

Lastly,  we  wonder  whether  they  may 
possess  within  themselves  reserves  that  come 
from  the  egg,  fatty  or  other  matters  the 
gradual  combustion  of  which  would  be  trans- 
formed into  mechanical  force.  If  the  ex- 
penditure of  energy  were  of  but  short  dura- 
tion, a  few  hours  or  a  few  days,  we  could 
gladly  welcome  this  idea  of  a  motor  viaticum, 
the  attribute  of  every  creature  born  into  the 
world.  The  chick  possesses  it  in  a  high  degree : 
it  is  steady  on  its  legs,  it  moves  for  a  little 
380 


The  Clotho  Spider 

while  with  the  sole  aid  of  the  food  wherewith 
the  egg  furnishes  it;  but  soon,  if  the  stomach 
is  not  kept  supplied,  the  centre  of  energy 
becomes  extinct  and  the  bird  dies.  How 
would  the  chick  fare  if  it  were  expected,  for 
seven  or  eight  months  without  stopping,  to 
stand  on  Its  feet,  to  run  about,  to  flee  In  the 
face  of  danger?  Where  would  it  stow  the 
necessary  reserves  for  such  an  amount  of 
work  ? 

The  little  Spider,  in  her  turn,  is  a  minute 
particle  of  no  size  at  all.  Where  could  she 
store  enough  fuel  to  keep  up  mobility  dur- 
ing so  long  a  period?  The  imagination 
shrinks  In  dismay  before  the  thought  of  an 
atom  endowed  with  exhaustible  motive 
oils. 

We  must  needs,  therefore,  appeal  to  the 
immaterial,  in  particular  to  heat-rays  coming 
from  the  outside  and  converted  Into  move- 
ment by  the  organism.  This  Is  nutrition  of 
energy  reduced  to  its  simplest  expression :  the 
motive  heat,  Instead  of  being  extracted  from 
the  food.  Is  utilized  direct,  as  supplied  by  the 
sun,  which  Is  the  seat  of  all  life.  Inert  matter 
has  disconcerting  secrets,  as  witness  radium; 
living  matter  has  secrets  of  Its  own,  which  are 
381 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

more  wonderful  still.  Nothing  tells  us  that 
science  will  not  one  day  turn  the  suspicion  sug- 
gested by  the  Spider  into  an  established  truth 
and  a  fundamental  theory  of  physiology. 


382 


APPENDIX 

THE    GEOMETRY    OF    THE    EPEIRA's    WEB 

T  FIND  myself  confronted  with  a  subject 
-*■  which  is  not  only  highly  interesting,  but 
somewhat  difficult:  not  that  the  subject  is 
obscure;  but  it  presupposes  in  the  reader  a 
certain  knowledge  of  geometry:  a  strong 
meat  too  often  neglected.  I  am  not  ad- 
dressing geometricians,  who  are  generally 
indifferent  to  questions  of  instinct,  nor  entomo- 
logical collectors,  who,  as  such,  take  no 
interest  in  mathematical  theorems ;  I  write  for 
any  one  with  sufficient  intelligence  to  enjoy 
the  lessons  which  the  insect  teaches. 

What  am  I  to  do?  To  suppress  this 
chapter  were  to  leave  out  the  most  remarkable 
instance  of  Spider  industry;  to  treat  it  as  it 
should  be  treated,  that  is  to  say,  with  the 
whole  armoury  of  scientific  formulae,  would  be 
out  of  place  in  these  modest  pages.  Let  us 
take  a  middle  course,  avoiding  both  abstruse 
truths  and  complete  ignorance. 

Let  us  direct  our  attention  to  the  nets  of 
383 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  Epeirse,  preferably  to  those  of  the  Silky 
Epeira  and  the  Banded  Epeira,  so  plentiful  in 
the  autumn,  in  my  part  of  the  country,  and 
so  remarkable  for  their  bulk.  We  shall  first 
observe  that  the  radii  are  equally  spaced;  the 
angles  formed  by  each  consecutive  pair  are  of 
perceptibly  equal  value;  and  this  in  spite  of 
their  number,  which  in  the  case  of  the  Silky 
Epeira  exceeds  two  score.  We  know  by  what 
strange  means  the  Spider  attains  her  ends  and 
divides  the  area  wherein  the  web  is  to  be 
warped  into  a  large  number  of  equal  sectors, 
a  number  which  is  almost  invariable  in  the 
work  of  each  species.  An  operation  without 
method,  governed,  one  might  imagine,  by  an 
irresponsible  whim,  results  in  a  beautiful  rose- 
window  worthy  of  our  compasses. 

We  shall  also  notice  that,  in  each  sector, 
the  various  chords,  the  elements  of  the  spiral 
windings,  are  parallel  to  one  another  and 
gradually  draw  closer  together  as  they  near 
the  centre.  With  the  two  radiating  lines  that 
frame  them  they  form  obtuse  angles  on  one 
side  and  acute  angles  on  the  other;  and  these 
angles  remain  constant  in  the  same  sector, 
because  the  chords  are  parallel. 

There  is  more  than  this :  these  same  angles, 
384 


The  Geometry  of  the  Epeira's  Web 

the  obtuse  as  well  as  the  acute,  do  not  alter  In 
value,  from  one  sector  to  another,  at  any  rate 
so  far  as  the  conscientious  eye  can  judge. 
Taken  as  a  whole,  therefore,  the  rope-latticed 
edifice  consists  of  a  series  of  cross-bars  inter- 
secting the  several  radiating  lines  obliquely  at 
angles  of  equal  value. 

By  this  characteristic  we  recognize  the 
'logarithmic  spiral.'  Geometricians  give  this 
name  to  the  curve  which  intersects  obliquely, 
at  angles  of  unvarying  value,  all  the  straight 
lines  or  'radii  vectores'  radiating  from  a 
centre  called  the  'pole.'  The  Epeira's  con- 
struction, therefore,  is  a  series  of  chords  join- 
ing the  intersections  of  a  logarithmic  spiral 
with  a  series  of  radii.  It  would  become 
merged  in  this  spiral  If  the  number  of  radii 
were  infinite,  for  this  would  reduce  the  length 
of  the  rectilinear  elements  indefinitely  and 
change  this  polygonal  line  Into  a  curve. 

To  suggest  an  explanation  why  this  spiral 
has  so  greatly  exercised  the  meditations  of 
science,  let  us  confine  ourselves  for  the  present 
to  a  few  statements  of  which  the  reader  will 
find  the  proof  In  any  treatise  on  higher 
geometry. 

The  logarithmic  spiral  describes  an  endless 
385 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

number  of  circuits  around  its  pole,  to  which  it 
constantly  draws  nearer  without  ever  being 
able  to  reach  it.  This  central  point  is  inde- 
finitely inaccessible  at  each  approaching  turn. 
It  is  obvious  that  this  property  is  beyond  our 
sensory  scope.  Even  with  the  help  of  the  best 
philosophical  instruments,  our  sight  could  not 
follow  its  interminable  windings  and  would 
soon  abandon  the  attempt  to  divide  the  in- 
visible. It  is  a  volute  to  which  the  brain  con- 
ceives no  limits.  The  trained  mind,  alone, 
more  discerning  than  our  retina,  sees  clearly 
that  which  defies  the  perceptive  faculties  of 
the  eye.  The  Epeira  complies  to  the  best  of 
her  ability  with  this  law  of  the  endless  volute. 
The  spiral  revolutions  come  closer  together  as 
they  approach  the  pole.  At  a  given  distance, 
they  stop  abruptly;  but,  at  this  point,  the 
auxiliary  spiral,  which  is  not  destroyed  in  the 
central  region,  takes  up  the  thread;  and  we 
see  it,  not  without  some  surprise,  draw  nearer 
to  the  pole  in  ever-narrowing  and  scarcely 
perceptible  circles.  There  is  not,  of  course, 
absolute  mathematical  accuracy,  but  a  very 
close  approximation  to  that  accuracy.  The 
Epeira  winds  nearer  and  nearer  round  her 
pole  so  far  as  her  equipment,  which  like  our 
386 


The  Geometry  of  the  Epeira's  Web 

own,  is  defective,  will  allow  her.  One  would 
believe  her  to  be  thoroughly  versed  in  the  laws 
of  the  spiral. 

I  will  continue  to  set  forth,  without  ex- 
planations, some  of  the  properties  of  this 
curious  curve.  Picture  a  flexible  thread  wound 
round  a  logarithmic  spiral.  If  we  then  un- 
wind it,  keeping  it  taut  the  while,  its  free 
extremity  will  describe  a  spiral  similar  at  all 
points  to  the  original.  The  curve  will  merely 
have  changed  places. 

Jacques  Bernouilli,^  to  whom  geometry 
owes  this  magnificent  theorem,  had  engraved 
on  his  tomb,  as  one  of  his  proudest  titles  to 
fame,  the  generating  spiral  and  its  double, 
begotten  of  the  unwinding  of  the  thread. 
An  inscription  proclaimed,  ^Eadem  miitata 
resurgo:  I  rise  again  like  unto  myself.' 
Geometry  would  find  it  difficult  to  better  this 
splendid  flight  of  fancy  towards  the  great 
problem  of  the  hereafter. 

There  is  another  geometrical  epitaph  no 
less  famous.     Cicero,  when  quaestor  in  Sicily, 

*  Jacques  Bernouilli  (1654-1705),  professor  of  mathe- 
matics at  the  University  of  Basel  from  1687  to  the  year 
of  his  death.  He  improved  the  differential  calculus, 
solved  the  isoperimetrical  problem  and  discovered  the 
properties  of  the  logarithmic  spiral. — Translator's  Note. 

387 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

searching  for  the  tomb  of  Archimedes  amid 
the  thorns  and  brambles  that  cover  us  with 
oblivion,  recognized  it,  among  the  ruins,  by 
the  geometrical  figure  engraved  upon  the 
stone:  the  cylinder  circumscribing  the  sphere. 
Archimedes,  in  fact,  was  the  first  to  know  the 
approximate  relation  of  circumference  to 
diameter;  from  it  he  deduced  the  perimeter 
and  surface  of  the  circle,  as  well  as  the  surface 
and  volume  of  the  sphere.  He  showed  that 
the  surface  and  volume  of  the  last-named 
equal  two-thirds  of  the  surface  and  volume  of 
the  circumscribing  cylinder.  Disdaining  all 
pompous  inscription,  the  learned  Syracusan 
honoured  himself  with  his  theorem  as  his  sole 
epitaph.  The  geometrical  figure  proclaimed 
the  individual's  name  as  plainly  as  would  any 
alphabetical  characters. 

To  have  done  with  this  part  of  our  subject, 
here  is  another  property  of  the  logarithmic 
spiral.  Roll  the  curve  along  an  indefinite 
straight  line.  Its  pole  will  become  displaced 
while  still  keeping  on  one  straight  line.  The 
endless  scroll  leads  to  rectilinear  progression ; 
the  perpetually  varied  begets  uniformity. 

Now  Is  this  logarithmic    spiral,   with   its 
curious  properties,  merely  a  conception  of  the 
388 


The  Geometry  of  the  Epeira's  Web 

geometers,  combining  number  and  extent,  at 
will,  so  as  to  imagine  a  tenebrous  abyss  where- 
in to  practise  their  analytical  methods  after- 
wards? Is  it  a  mere  dream  in  the  night  of 
the  intricate,  an  abstract  riddle  flung  out  for 
our  understanding  to  browse  upon? 

No,  it  is  a  reality  in  the  service  of  life,  a 
method  of  construction  frequently  employed 
in  animal  architecture.  The  Mollusc,  in 
particular,  never  rolls  the  winding  ramp  of 
the  shell  without  reference  to  the  scientific 
curve.  The  first-born  of  the  species  knew  it 
and  put  it  into  practice;  it  was  as  perfect  in 
the  dawn  of  creation  as  it  can  be  to-day. 

Let  us  study,  in  this  connection,  the  Am- 
monites, those  venerable  relics  of  what  was 
once  the  highest  expression  of  living  things,  at 
the  time  when  the  solid  land  was  taking  shape 
from  the  oceanic  ooze.  Cut  and  polished 
lengthwise,  the  fossil  shows  a  magnificent 
logarithmic  spiral,  the  general  pattern  of  the 
dwelling  which  was  a  pearl  palace,  with  nu- 
merous chambers  traversed  by  a  siphuncular 
corridor. 

To  this  day,  the  last  representative  of  the 
Cephalopoda  with  partitioned  shells,  the 
Nautilus  of  the  Southern  Seas,  remains  faith- 
389 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

ful  to  the  ancient  design;  it  has  not  Improved 
upon  its  distant  predecessors.  It  has  altered 
the  position  of  the  siphuncle,  has  placed  it  In 
the  centre  Instead  of  leaving  it  on  the  back, 
but  It  still  whirls  Its  spiral  logarithmically  as 
did  the  Ammonites  In  the  earliest  ages  of  the 
world's  existence. 

And  let  us  not  run  away  with  the  Idea  that 
these  princes  of  the  Mollusc  tribe  have  a 
monopoly  of  the  scientific  curve.  In  the 
stagnant  waters  of  our  grassy  ditches,  the  flat 
shells,  the  humble  Planorbes,  sometimes  no 
bigger  than  a  duckweed,  vie  with  the  Ammo- 
nite and  the  Nautilus  in  matters  of  higher 
geometry.  At  least  one  of  them,  Planorhis 
vortex,  for  example,  is  a  marvel  of  logarith- 
mic whorls. 

In  the  long-shaped  shells,  the  structure 
becomes  more  complex,  though  remaining 
subject  to  the  same  fundamental  laws.  I  have 
before  my  eyes  some  species  of  the  genus 
Terebra,  from  New  Caledonia.  They  are  ex- 
tremely tapering  cones,  attaining  almost  nine 
Inches  In  length.  Their  surface  is  smooth  and 
quite  plain,  without  any  of  the  usual  orna- 
ments, such  as  furrows,  knots  or  strings  of 
pearls.     The  spiral  edifice  is  superb,  graced 

390 


The  Geometry  of  the  Epeira's  Web 

with  its  own  simplicity  alone,  I  count  a  score 
of  whorls  which  gradually  decrease  until  they 
vanish  in  the  delicate  point.  They  are  edged 
with  a  fine  groove. 

I  take  a  pencil  and  draw  a  rough  generat- 
ing line  to  this  cone;  and,  relying  merely  on 
the  evidence  of  my  eyes,  which  are  more  or 
less  practised  in  geometric  measurements,  I 
find  that  the  spiral  groove  intersects  this  gen- 
erating line  at  an  angle  of  unvarying  value. 

The  consequence  of  this  result  is  easily 
deduced.  If  projected  on  a  plane  perpendic- 
ular to  the  axis  of  the  shell,  the  generating 
lines  of  the  cone  would  become  radii ;  and  the 
groove  which  winds  upwards  from  the  base 
to  the  apex  would  be  converted  into  a  plane 
curve  which,  meeting  those  radii  at  an  unvary- 
ing angle,  would  be  neither  more  nor  less  than 
a  logarithmic  spiral.  Conversely,  the  groove 
of  the  shell  may  be  considered  as  the  projec- 
tion of  this  spiral  on  a  conic  surface. 

Better  still.  Let  us  imagine  a  plane  per- 
pendicular to  the  axis  of  the  shell  and  passing 
through  its  summit.  Let  us  imagine,  more- 
over, a  thread  wound  along  the  spiral  groove. 
Let  us  unroll  the  thread,  holding  it  taut  as  we 
do  so.  Its  extremity  will  not  leave  the  plane 
391 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

and  win  describe  a  logarithmic  spiral  within 
it.  It  Is,  In  a  more  complicated  degree, 
a  variant  of  Bernoullli's  'Eadem  mutata 
resurge:'  the  logarithmic  conic  curve  becomes 
a  logarithmic  plane  curve. 

A  similar  geometry  is  found  in  the  other 
shells  with  elongated  cones,  Turritellae, 
Spindle-shells,  Cerithia,  as  well  as  In  the  shells 
with  flattened  cones,  Trochldae,  Turbines. 
The  spherical  shells,  those  whirled  Into  a 
volute,  are  no  exception  to  this  rule.  All, 
down  to  the  common  Snail-shell,  are  con- 
structed according  to  logarithmic  laws.  The 
famous  spiral  of  the  geometers  Is  the  general 
plan  followed  by  the  Mollusc  rolling  Its  stone 
sheath. 

Where  do  these  glairy  creatures  pick  up 
this  science?  We  are  told  that  the  Mollusc 
derives  from  the  Worm.  One  day,  the 
Worm,  rendered  frisky  by  the  sun,  emanci- 
pated Itself,  brandished  Its  tall  and  twisted  It 
into  a  corkscrew  for  sheer  glee.  There  and 
then  the  plan  of  the  future  spiral  shell  was 
discovered. 

This  Is  what  is  taught  quite  seriously.  In 
these  days,  as  the  very  last  word  In  scientific 
progress.  It  remains  to  be  seen  up  to  what 
392 


The  Geometry  of  the  Epeira's  Web 

point  the  explanation  is  acceptable.  The 
Spider,  for  her  part,  will  have  none  of  it.  Un- 
related to  the  appendix-lacking,  corkscrew- 
twirling  Worm,  she  is  nevertheless  familiar 
with  the  logarithmic  spiral.  From  the  cele- 
brated curve  she  obtains  merely  a  sort  of 
framework;  but,  elementary  though  this 
framework  be,  it  clearly  marks  the  ideal 
edifice.  The  Epeira  works  on  the  same  prin- 
ciples as  the  Mollusc  of  the  convoluted  shell. 

The  Mollusc  has  years  wherein  to  construct 
its  spiral  and  it  uses  the  utmost  finish  in  the 
whirling  process.  The  Epeira,  to  spread  her 
net,  has  but  an  hour's  sitting  at  the  most, 
wherefore  the  speed  at  which  she  works  com- 
pels her  to  rest  content  with  a  simpler  pro- 
duction. She  shortens  the  task  by  confining 
herself  to  a  skeleton  of  the  curve  which  the 
other  describes  to  perfection. 

The  Epeira,  therefore,  is  versed  in  the  geo- 
metric secrets  of  the  Ammonite  and  the 
Nautilus  pompilus;  she  uses,  in  a  simpler 
form,  the  logarithmic  line  dear  to  the  Snail. 
What  guides  her?  There  is  no  appeal  here  to 
a  wriggle  of  some  kind,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
Worm  that  ambitiously  aspires  to  become  a 
Mollusc.    The  animal  must  needs  carry  within 

393 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

itself  a  virtual  diagram  of  its  spiral.  Acci- 
dent, however  fruitful  in  surprises  we  may 
presume  it  to  be,  can  never  have  taught  it  the 
higher  geometry  wherein  our  own  intelligence 
at  once  goes  astray,  without  a  strict  prelimi- 
nary training. 

Are  we  to  recognize  a  mere  effect  of 
organic  structure  in  the  Epeira's  art?  We 
readily  think  of  the  legs,  which,  endowed 
with  a  very  varying  power  of  extension,  might 
serve  as  compasses.  More  or  less  bent,  more 
or  less  outstretched,  they  would  mechanically 
determine  the  angle  whereat  the  spiral  shall 
intersect  the  radius;  they  would  maintain  the 
parallel  of  the  chords  in  each  sector. 

Certain  objections  arise  to  affirm  that,  in 
this  instance,  the  tool  is  not  the  sole  regulator 
of  the  work.  Were  the  arrangment  of  the 
thread  determined  by  the  length  of  the  legs, 
we  should  find  the  spiral  volutes  separated 
more  widely  from  one  another  in  proportion 
to  the  greater  length  of  implement  in  the 
spinstress.  We  see  this  in  the  Banded  Epeira 
and  the  Silky  Epeira.  The  first  has  longer 
limbs  and  spaces  her  cross-threads  more 
liberally  than  does  the  second,  whose  legs  are 
shorter. 

394 


The  Geometry  of  the  Epeira's  Web 

But  we  must  not  rely  too  much  on  this  rule, 
say  others.  The  Angular  Epeira,  the  Pale- 
tinted  Epeira  and  the  Diadem  Epeira,  or 
Cross  Spider,  all  three  more  or  less  short- 
limbed,  rival  the  Banded  Epeira  in  the  spac- 
ing of  their  lime-snares.  The  last  two 
even  dispose  them  with  greater  intervening 
distances. 

We  recognize  in  another  respect  that  the 
organization  of  the  animal  does  not  imply  an 
immutable  type  of  work.  Before  beginning 
the  sticky  spiral,  the  Epeirs  first  spin  an 
auxiliary  intended  to  strengthen  the  stays. 
This  spiral,  formed  of  plain,  non-glutinous 
thread,  starts  from  the  centre  and  winds  in 
rapidly-widening  circles  to  the  circumference. 
It  is  merely  a  temporary  construction,  where- 
of naught  but  the  central  part  survives  when 
the  Spider  has  set  its  limy  meshes.  The 
second  spiral,  the  essential  part  of  the  snare, 
proceeds,  on  the  contrary,  in  serried  coils  from 
the  circumference  to  the  centre  and  is  com- 
posed entirely  of  viscous  cross-threads. 

Here   we   have,    following   one  upon   the 

other,  by  a  sudden  alteration  of  the  machine, 

two  volutes  of  an  entirely  different  order  as 

regards  direction,  the  number  of  whorls  and 

395 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

the  angle  of  intersection.  Both  of  them  are 
logarithmic  spirals.  I.  see  no  mechanism  of 
the  legs,  be  they  long  or  short,  that  can  ac- 
count for  this  alteration. 

Can  it  then  be  a  premeditated  design  on 
the  part  of  the  Epeira  ?  Can  there  be  calcula- 
tion, measurement  of  angles,  gauging  of  the 
parallel  by  means  of  the  eye  or  otherwise?  I 
am  inclined  to  think  that  there  is  none  of  all 
this,  or  at  least  nothing  but  an  innate  pro- 
pensity, whose  effects  the  animal  is  no  more 
able  to  control  than  the  flower  is  able  to  con- 
trol the  arrangement  of  its  verticils.  The 
Epeira  practises  higher  geometry  without 
knowing  or  caring.  The  thing  works  of  itself 
and  takes  its  impetus  from  an  instinct  im- 
posed upon  creation  from  the  start. 

The  stone  thrown  by  the  hand  returns  to 
earth  describing  a  certain  curve;  the  dead  leaf 
torn  and  wafted  away  by  a  breath  of  wind 
makes  its  journey  from  the  tree  to  the  ground 
with  a  similar  curve.  On  neither  the  one  side 
nor  the  other  is  there  any  action  by  the  mov- 
ing body  to  regulate  the  fall ;  nevertheless,  the 
descent  takes  place  according  to  a  scientific 
trajectory,  the  'parabola,'  of  which  the  section 
of  a  cone  by  a  plane  furnished  the  prototype 
396 


The  Geometry  of  the  Epeira's  Web 

to  the  geometer's  speculations.  A  figure, 
which  was  at  first  but  a  tentative  glimpse,  be- 
comes a  reality  by  the  fall  of  a  pebble  out  of 
the  vertical. 

The  same  speculations  take  up  the  para- 
bola once  more,  imagine  it  rolling  on  an 
indefinite  straight  line  and  ask  what  course 
does  the  focus  of  this  curve  follow.  The 
answer  comes:  the  focus  of  the  parabola  de- 
scribes a  'catenary,'  a  line  very  simple  in 
shape,  but  endowed  with  an  algebraic  symbol 
that  has  to  resort  to  a  kind  of  cabalistic  num- 
ber at  variance  with  any  sort  of  numeration, 
so  much  so  that  the  unit  refuses  to  express  it, 
however  much  we  subdivide  the  unit.  It  is 
called  the  number  e.  Its  value  is  repre- 
sented by  the  following  series  carried  out  ad 
infinitum : 

^~  ^"l"^1.2"'~1.2.3'^1.2.3.4  "^  1.2.3.4.5  """^  ^' 

If  the  reader  had  the  patience  to  work  out 
the  few  initial  terms  of  this  series,  which  has 
no  limit,  because  the  series  of  natural  numerals 
itself  has  none,  he  would  find: 

^=2.7182818  .  .  . 

With  this  weird  number  are  we  now  sta- 

397 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

tioned  within  the  strictly  defined  realm  of  the 
imagination?  Not  at  all:  the  catenary  ap- 
pears actually  every  time  that  weight  and 
flexibility  act  in  concert.  The  name  is  given 
to  the  curve  formed  by  a  chain  suspended  by 
two  of  its  points  which  are  not  placed  on  a 
vertical  line.  It  is  the  shape  taken  by  a  flex- 
ible cord  when  held  at  each  end  and  relaxed; 
it  is  the  line  that  governs  the  shape  of  a  sail 
bellying  in  the  wind;  it  is  the  curve  of  the 
nanny-goat's  milk-bag  when  she  returns  from 
filling  her  trailing  udder.  And  all  this 
answers  to  the  number  e. 

What  a  quantity  of  abstruse  science  for  a 
bit  of  string!  Let  us  not  be  surprised.  A 
pellet  of  shot  swinging  at  the  end  of  a  thread, 
a  drop  of  dew  trickling  down  a  straw,  a 
splash  of  water  rippling  under  the  kisses  of 
the  air,  a  mere  trifle,  after  all,  requires  a 
titanic  scaffolding  when  we  wish  to  examine  it 
with  the  eye  of  calculation.  We  need  the  club 
of  Hercules  to  crush  a  fly. 

Our  methods  of  mathematical  Investigation 
are  certainly  ingenious;  we  cannot  too  much 
admire  the  mighty  brains  that  have  Invented 
them ;  but  how  slow  and  laborious  they  appear 
when  compared  with  the  smallest  actualities  I 
398 


The  Geometry  of  the  Epeira's  Web 

Will  it  never  be  given  to  us  to  probe  reality  in 
a  simpler  fashion?  Will  our  intelligence  be 
able  one  day  to  dispense  with  the  heavy 
arsenal  of  formulae?    Why  not? 

Here  we  have  the  abracadabric  number  e 
reappearing,  inscribed  on  a  Spider's  thread. 
Let  us  examine,  on  a  misty  morning,  the  mesh- 
work  that  has  been  constructed  during  the 
night.  Owing  to  their  hygrometrical  nature, 
the  sticky  threads  are  laden  with  tiny  drops, 
and,  bending  under  the  burden,  have  become 
so  many  catenaries,  so  many  chaplets  of  limpid 
gems,  graceful  chaplets  arranged  in  exquisite 
order  and  following  the  curve  of  a  swing.  If 
the  sun  pierce  the  mist,  the  whole  lights  up 
with  iridescent  fires  and  becomes  a  resplendent 
cluster  of  diamonds.  The  number  e  is  in  its 
glory. 

Geometry,  that  is  to  say,  the  science  of 
harmony  in  space,  presides  over  everything. 
We  find  it  in  the  arrangement  of  the  scales  of 
a  fir-cone,  as  in  the  arrangement  of  an  Epeira's 
lime-snare;  we  find  it  in  the  spiral  of  a  Snail- 
shell,  in  the  chaplet  of  a  Spider's  thread,  as  In 
the  orbit  of  a  planet;  it  is  everywhere,  as 
perfect  in  the  world  of  atoms  as  in  the  world 
of  immensities. 

3t^ 


The  Life  of  the  Spider 

And  this  universal  geometry  tells  us  of  an 
Universal  Geometrican,  whose  divine  compass 
has  measured  all  things.  I  prefer  that,  as  an 
explanation  of  the  logarithmic  curve  of  the 
Ammonite  and  the  Epeira,  to  the  Worm 
screwing  up  the  tip  of  its  tail.  It  may  not 
perhaps  be  in  accordance  with  latter-day 
teaching,  but  it  takes  a  loftier  flight. 


4<x> 


INDEX 


JEshna    grandis     {see 

Dragon-fly) 
Agelena   labyrinthica    (see 

Labyrinth  Spider) 
American    Tarantula    (see 

Mygale) 
Ammonite,     389-390,     393, 

400 
Ammophila      (see     Hairy 

Ammophila) 
Angular  Epeira, 

244,    248-266, 

286,    289-290, 

311-313,  395 
Anoxia,  174,  314 
Anthophagus,   17 
Archimedes,  388 
Argyroneta      (see 

Spider) 
Asidse,  365 


231,  238, 
280-281, 
292-301, 


Water 


B 

Baglivi,  Giorgio,  48,  55,  58 

Baker,  W.  S.  Graff,  37 

Banded  Epeira,  78-104, 177- 

178,    190-191,    202-210, 

219,  223,  227,  231,  238, 

244,  254,  258-259,  266, 

272-283,   301-316,    320- 

329,  342,   348,   383-400 

I3ee  (see  Bumble-bee,  Car- 

»^    penter-bee.     Domestic 

Bee,  Mason-bee) 


Beetle,  8.  74,  304-306,  361 
Bernouilli,     Jacques,     387, 

392 
Bird  Spider  (see  Mygale) 
Black-bellied    Tarantula 

(see     Narbonne     Ly- 

cosa) 
Blue-bottle,   18-20 
Bombus  (see  Bumble-bee) 
Bumble-bee,  57-64,  314 
Bunting,  228 
Buprestis,   71,  314 
Butterfly,  314,  316,  339,  347 


Carpenter-bee,  65-68,  70 
Caterpillar,  8,  76,  348  n 
Centipede,  365 
Cephalopoda,  389 
Cerceris,  17,  67,  72,  314 
Cerithia,  392 
Cetonia,  19,  315 
Chaffinch,  219,  228-229 
Chick,  26,  157,  378-381 
Cicada,  75,  144,  257 
Cicero,  387 
Cigaie  (see  Cicada) 
Clothes-moth,  306 
Clotho    Durandi    (see 

Clotho  Spider) 
Clotho  Spider,  27,  33,  360- 

382 
Cockchafer,  314 
Copris,  158-159 


401 


Index 


Crab  Spider,  105-108,  213- 

227,  315,  350,  352 
Crater  Epeira,  231,  290-291 
Crested  Lark,  227 
Cricket,    17,    142,    146-147, 

149,  245,  314 
Cross   Spider,  27,   177-184, 

191-202,  325-328,  395 
Cryptus    (see   Ichneumon- 

fly) 


Epeira  diadema  (see  Cross 
Spider) 

Epeira  fasciata  (see 
Banded  Epeira) 

Epeira  pallida  (see  Pale- 
tinted  Epeira) 

Epeira  sericea  (see  Silky 
Epeira) 

Eumenes,  17 


D 

Debassaire  (see  Penduline 

Titmouse) 
Diadem  Epeira  (see  Cross 

Spider) 
Dog.  317,  378 
Domestic  Bee,  20,  59,  62, 

105,  214-216,  218,  223, 

315,  352 
Dragon-fly,    80,    136,    139, 

282,    289-290,    294-295, 

311-312,  314 
Dufour,  Leon,  40,  42-52,  56 
Dung-beetle,  11,  14,  71,  3^4 
Durand,  361-362. 


Earth-worm,  144,  392-394, 
400 

Empusa,  19 

Ephippigera,  69,  77 

Epeira  (see  Garden 
Spider) 

Epeira  angulata  (see  An- 
gular Epeira) 

Epeira  crater  a  (see  Crater 
Epeira) 


Fabre,  J.  Henri,  7-27 
Fabre,  Paul,  195 
Field  Cricket  (see  Cricket) 
Fly,    8,    141,   302-304,   314, 
339 

G 

Garden  Spider,  27,  60,  108, 
117,  127,  129,  177-184, 
228-329,  337,  340,  380, 
383-400 

Geotrupe,  11 

Gnat,  2,  34,  173,  246,  267 

Goldfinch,  219,  276-277 

Grasshopper,  28,  59,  69,  74, 
80,  84,  245,  314 

Great  Peacock  Moth,  28, 
297 

Greenfinch,  228 

H 

Hairy  Ammophila,   17,  67, 

76-77 
Hen,  107-108,  157 
Horned  Viper,  312 
Hornet,  304-305 
House   Spider,  267-2^^ 

356,  367 


402 


Index 


Ichneumon-fly,  348,  351 
lulus,  366 


Labyrinth   Spider,  330-359 
La  Fontaine,  Jean,  318 
Langdale,  Marmaduke,  2)7 
Languedocian    Scorpion, 

28,  ZZ  . 
Languedocian    Sphex,    17, 

67,  76-77,  314 

Lark    {see  Crested  Lark) 

Leaf-cutter  {see  Mega- 
chile) 

Leucospis,   17 

Linnet,  228 

Locust,  19,  69,  82-85,  121, 
139,  174,  282-284,  287- 
289,  294-295,  309-310, 
312-314,    316,   338-340 

Lycosa  narbonnensis  (see 
Narbonne  Lycosa) 


M 

Mademoiselle  Mori,  Au- 
thor of,  36,  176  n, 
308  n 

Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  27 

Malmignatte,  40-41 

Mammoth,  319 

Mantis  religiosa  (see 
Praying  Mantis) 

Mason-bee,  8,  17,  99 

Ma^on  Mygale  (see  My- 
gale) 

Megachile,  8,  20-23 


Miall,   Bernard,   36,  85   n, 

297  n,  315  n 
Michelet,  Jules,  125-126 
Midge,  227,  346 
Minotauriis    typhaus,    14- 

15,  32, 
Mistral,  Frederic,  7  » 
Mole,  74-75 
Mosquito,  347 
Moth,    249-250,    262,    266, 

301-304,  306 
Mygale,  330-332,  363 

N 

Narbonne  Lycosa,  33,  39- 
77,  105-186,  221-222, 
312,  330,  277,  379-382 

Nautilus  pompilus,  389- 
390,  393 

O 

Oil-beetle,  20 
Opatra,  365 
Opossum,  120 
Ortolan,  228 
Oryctes,  315 
Osmia,  28 


Pachytilus  cinarescens,   17 
Pale-tinted  Eperia,  123-124, 

231,  395 
Partridge,  378 
Pelopseus,  100 
Penduline  Titmouse,    100- 

104 
Pentatomida,  23-25 
Philanthus  apivorus,  315 


403 


Index 


Planorhis  vortex,  390 
Praying  Mantis,  19,  29,  85- 

87,  304-306,  314 
Processionary  of  the  Pine, 

15-16,  269-270 
Pupa  cinerea,  366-367 
Pupa  quadridens,  366-367 

R 

Rattlesnake,  312 
Reduvius    personatus,    24- 

25 
Reindeer,  319 
Rhinoceros     Beetle      {see 

Oryctes) 
Rodwell,  Miss  Frances,  Z7 
Rose-chafer  {see  Cetonia) 


Tachytes,  17 

Tarantula,  40-52 

Tegenaria  domestica  {see 
House  Spider) 

Teixeria  de  Mattos,  Alex- 
ander, 37,  158  n,  176  n, 
315  n 

Tenebrionidse,  365 

Terebra,  390-392 

Theridion  lugubre,  40-41 

Thomisus  onustus  {see 
Crab  Spider) 

Tiberius,  the  Emperor,  331 

Trigonocephalus,  312 

Tryxalis,  84 

Turritellse,  392 


Sacred  Beetle,  11-14,  176 

Sambe,  228-229 

Scolia,    314-315 

Scorpion  {see  Languedo- 
cian  Scorpion) 

Silky  Epeira,  85-87,  95-96, 
177-179,  210-212,  220, 
231,  238,  243,  258-259, 
266,  272-283,  302-316, 
320-322,  324-326,  342, 
346,  384-400 

Snail,  33,  361,  366,  392 

Spanish-fly,  27 

Sparrow,  72-74 

Sphex  {see  Languedocian 
Sphex) 

Spindle-shell,  392 


V 
Viper  {see  Horned  Viper) 

W 

Wasp,  8,  59-60,  62,  71,  314 
Water  Spider,  27,  331-332 
Weevil,  71,  314 
Worm    {see  Earth-worm) 

X 

Xylocopa    violacea    {see 
Carpenter-bee) 


Yellowhammer^  228 


404 


BOSTON  COLLEGE 


I 


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